The Last Honourable Man
by LadyRhiyana
Summary: For 15 years, hitokiri Battousai stood behind Katsura, the leader of the Ishin Shishi yakuza. But now Katsura is dying, and the battle for the top position begins... Updated 13.12.10. Ch 12 up!
1. Chapter 1

A/N – This idea was spawned by a plot for a mad action movie in Athelgar's story 'Superstar'. It's quite obviously AU; in this, Kenshin never met Tomoe, or left the Ishin Shishi. I've also made Katsura a fair bit older.

Disclaimer – I don't own. Don't sue.

* * *

**The Last Honourable Man**

* * *

Lieutenant Saito Hajime sat with his feet comfortably propped up on his desk, chain-smoking, while the newest member of his elite task force stood nervously before him, unconsciously fidgeting.

"Well?" he drawled. "What do you want?"

The girl – she was only a girl, barely out of college – started, her blue eyes widening nervously. Inwardly, Saito snorted – _this _was what they were sending him these days. Accountants, statisticians and psychologists: soft, white-collar investigators who spent their lives in comfortable, safe offices and had never been anywhere near the streets. This girl – this Kamiya – wouldn't last five minutes out in the real world.

"Sir," the girl began nervously. Saito despised nervous, fearful people who could not look him in the eye. "The Commissioner has assigned me to your task force, sir."

"Oh?" The wolf raised an eyebrow, allowed smoke to trickle out skeptically from his nostrils. "And what qualifications do you have for catching yakuza, Kamiya? Have you spent twenty years pounding the streets, tracking them down through bars, illegal casinos, dingy strip clubs and brothels and gaming dens?"

She stiffened. "No, sir," she admitted.

"Have you spent years coming _this _close to victory, only to be thwarted by bought judges and bureaucrats on the take?"

"No, sir," she said again.

"Have you seen your partner, your wife and your two children blown away in a yakuza hit because you wouldn't give up, wouldn't play their game?"

She swallowed, her face paling. "No, sir."

"Then tell me why I should accept you on this task force, Kamiya," he sneered. "Tell me what experience and qualifications you can contribute to our group."

If she pulled rank and reminded him of the Commissioner's orders he would throw her straight out on her ass.

"Well sir," she swallowed again, straightened herself, and looked him in the eye. "I wrote my PhD on the philosophy of organized crime, sir. I believe that I can contribute valuable insight into the minds of the leaders and the common foot soldiers both."

He grunted. "Do you?" He stared at her a bit longer, holding her gaze, nothing with some amusement that she had to force herself to keep meeting his eyes. "These men wrote their own PhDs in violence, terror and extortion. They're stone cold killers who won't hesitate to chop off their own fingers as signs of their extreme loyalty to their boss. I don't want to understand them, Kamiya; I want to destroy them."

She went white, and her hands clenched into tight, bloodless fists. But, watching her, he knew that she would not beg –

Good. The first sign of strength he'd seen in her.

"Can you defend yourself, Kamiya?"

"I have received the standard weapons training, sir."

"That was not what I asked," he snapped.

"I am a fair shot, sir. I also have some skill in kenpo, and advanced kendo training."

He raised his brow again. "Kendo?"

"My family owns a dojo, sir. Before his death, my father trained me in our traditional style, the Kamiya Kasshin Ryu."

For the first time, she surprised him. Kenpo he dismissed – she wasn't tall, or heavy, or strong enough for her skills to be anything but self-defense. She didn't have a killer's eyes, and he suspected that it would take something extraordinary to force her to pull the trigger. But kendo…

That was not something often seen, these days.

"Tell me something, Kamiya. Do you train with real steel, or with bokken?"

"I train with a bokken, sir," she said stiffly. "There is too much potential for accidents, otherwise. And the aim of Kamiya Kasshin Ryu is not to injure others, but to bring out our own potential."

Saito shook his head. Uncrossing his legs, he brought them down off the desk and sat up straight in his chair, opening a drawer and withdrawing a thick, battered manila file. He tucked it under his arm, and then stood up, startling the girl.

"Come on," he said abruptly. "Let's go." He strode over to the door, jerked it open, not waiting for her to precede him.

"Wh- what? Sir?"

"Get a move on, Kamiya. If you want to hunt yakuza, you should see what they're truly like first."

Bewildered, she followed him out into the police station, and then down into the garage.

* * *

Kamiya Kaoru eyed the dour, sardonic lieutenant warily. She had expected him to be intimidating, but had not been prepared for outright hostility – or for the extreme vehemence of his hatred for the yakuza.

_Have you seen your partner, your wife and your two children blown away in a yakuza hit…? _

They came to an old, battered standard police issue, and Saito motioned for her to get in.

"Where exactly are we going, sir?" she asked, once they were underway.

"I told you. You're going to get a good idea of what these killers are capable of. Gain some practical experience, to complement your theoretical knowledge." His tone was anything but complimentary. The ever-present cigarette glowed evilly, reflected in the feral yellow of his eyes. "We're going to Showgirls, a downtown strip club. You're lucky, Kamiya; we got the call just before you walked into my office."

Kaoru wasn't so sure. She'd heard stories of what the yakuza did to businesses that didn't pay, had even seen some pictures – and she knew, personally, the horror of coming home to see a beloved mother and father dead, the kills marked to flaunt the killers' loyalties. But she didn't like the look in the lieutenant's eyes, and so she held her peace.

Showgirls turned out to be exactly the kind of dark, dingy strip joint she had imagined from the lieutenant's description. There were patrol cars everywhere, and cops milling about all over the place – but they all made way for Saito, with Kaoru trailing in his wake, trying to look inconspicuous. Inside, she found devastation – smashed chairs and tables, shattered glass and ripped carpets, upholstery and curtains. There were bodies everywhere, sprawled awkwardly on the floor, slumped against the wall, floating facedown in the bubbling, still foaming spa.

One of the detectives on scene, a stone-faced man in a trench coat, saw Saito and moved over to meet him.

"Shinomori Aoshi," Saito said curtly, gesturing to the detective, and then to Kaoru, "Kamiya Kaoru. What's the situation?"

Shinomori looked about him, at the carnage, the blood, the bodies, and the destruction. "The proprietor of this place, a Yamazuki-san, refused to pay his protection money to the Ishin Shishi. I'd say old man Katsura was offended by the refusal."

Saito snorted. "You would, would you? I doubt it hurt the old bastard's feelings." He crouched down to examine one of the corpses, a middle-aged man, horribly slashed. "This isn't Battousai's work."

"No?" Shinomori crouched down beside him. "I wouldn't know."

"When you've been chasing a killer for nearly fifteen years, Shinomori, you get to know their work. And this is not his."

"What are you saying, that Katsura suddenly has two sword-wielding assassins in his employ?"

Kaoru, still dazed by the sight, smell, and shock of so much death and destruction in such an enclosed place, heard little of the detectives' conversation. Her attention was fixed desperately on the wall as she willed herself not to throw up.

Wait.

_Sword-wielding assassins?_ She bent down to take a closer look at one of the bodies, lying in a pool of dark crimson blood, examining the wounds that had killed him – and they were most definitely not gunshot wounds. Someone had killed this man – had killed everyone in the building, probably – with a _sword_. Surely, in this day and age, the idea was ridiculous.

But the dead men and women sprawled awkwardly on the floor were not laughing, and nor were the two detectives so calmly discussing expert techniques and perfect style.

"It's too messy, Shinomori. Battousai's work is neater than this; he's almost surgical in his skill. This is…" Saito's mouth twisted. "This is a slaughter. It doesn't fit. Are you sure that the owner owed money to Katsura?"

"He was definitely paying the Ishin Shishi for protection."

"Hnn. If I didn't know better…" He trailed off.

* * *

Across the city, an old man sat, meditating, in a sparse, traditional style room. He heard the soft pad of footsteps in the corridor, and then heard the shoji screen slide open behind him, and then close.

"Himura," he said, acknowledging the new arrival.

"Katsura-san," the hitokiri said, kneeling down behind him, placing his swords by his side.

"Yamazuki refused to pay his dues. You know there can be no exceptions."

There was a small silence behind him. Himura's silences were always eloquent.

"Shishio acted without your permission. It was a slaughter."

"He is stirring. There are more important things to worry about."

Katsura Kogoro was only fifty-five years old. For the last ten years, since he'd crushed his rivals in a gang war that had lasted for five bloody years, he had been the most powerful yakuza leader in Japan. However, not even he was powerful enough to overcome death – six months, his doctors had told him, when he consulted them about the blinding headaches. Six months to put his affairs in order and ensure the safe succession of the Ishin Shishi's leadership…

"Five years ago, even two, you would not have allowed such stirring. You cannot countenance such disobedience. It is a challenge to your leadership."

"Himura –"

"Katsura-san," Himura interrupted, uncharacteristically vehement. They had tiptoed over this ground before, but this was the first time that the assassin insisted on speaking. "Fifteen years I have served you willingly, wielding my blade in your service, trusting in your cause and your reasons. But Saigo-san's rebellion weakened us, and Shishio used the distraction to entrench himself further. I don't trust the new men he has brought in, or the new programs he suggests at council meetings. He speaks of people smuggling, Katsura-san, and even of _heroin…_"

Fifteen years ago, Katsura had been a struggling, ambitious leader of a growing syndicate, eager to topple the aging, rotting Tokugawa group. His discovery of a young, idealistic street kid willing to use his sword to instill terror in the enemy had been the turning point in the gang war – Himura's sword had brought Katsura to power, and had helped him maintain an iron grip for ten long years.

All that the assassin asked was that Katsura be a man worthy of his allegiance.

"What else should I have done with him, Himura? He was a charismatic man with powerful connections. Should I have made an enemy of him from the very beginning? Better to keep him close."

"You should have let me kill him. Even from the beginning, he had his eye on your position."

"He is useful, and I am strong enough to keep him in line."

"With respect, Katsura-san, _you _are strong enough. But is Okubo-san?"

Katsura stilled. Okubo Toshimichi was his second-in-command, who would take over when he died.

"How long have you known?" he asked.

Amazingly, Himura laughed, a small, huffed laugh. "I am your personal bodyguard, the head of your security. Your doctors are too terrified of me not to speak of their concerns. And Ikumatsu-san told me. I have known from the beginning."

And he had said nothing. It was characteristic of Himura's extreme discretion – only with Katsura would he speak his mind. It had led, often, to resentment and fear, as the others saw how much trust Katsura placed in his assassin – and how hitokiri Battousai would answer to Katsura, and no one else.

"Then, when I am…gone," Katsura began, "will you remain, and lend Okubo your strength?"

Silence.

Was Himura's loyalty to Katsura himself, or to the Ishin Shishi? Would he walk away, believing that Shishio merely waited for an opportunity to take power?

"Is this a test, Katsura-san? Did you allow him to destroy that club, so that you could coax me into this discussion, into this very question?"

Katsura bowed his head. "And if I did?"

There was an unmistakable 'shnick' behind him, the metallic click of a sword hilt freed from the sheath, the first, miniscule threat of a drawn blade. He kept still, waiting on Himura's decision –

"I don't believe you did."

"No. But the question remains: fifteen years you have served me – will you transfer that loyalty to Okubo?"

Himura let his blade settle back into its sheath.

"Okubo-san is a good man. I will support him against Shishio, but once that is over –" Himura trailed off, and for the first time, seemed uncertain. "I will be thirty years old, soon."

Katsura smiled.

"Very well. Thank you."

Behind him, he could hear the assassin stand up with quiet, deadly grace. In his mind, he could see Himura Kenshin as he had been at fourteen years old, young and idealistic, his eyes already aware of loss and death, but willing to create more to see his vision fulfilled.

Thirty years old, soon.

"Himura," he said impulsively, standing himself, turning so that he could face the man who had laid and upheld the foundation of his power. Their eyes met – his, tired and weary and old, and Himura's, intelligent, but flat and hard, killer's eyes. "Do you regret…?"

Slowly, almost shyly, hitokiri Battousai's rare, fugitive smile grew, warming his eyes and giving life and animation to that dangerous, scarred face. "No, Katsura-san. No, I don't regret my service under you."

He bowed, and Katsura, slowly, returned it. Then, silently, he turned and left.

* * *

A/N - Feedback is greatly appreciated. Thanks for reading! 


	2. Chapter 2

A/N – Four days without my computer! I'm back, and I have serious withdrawal symptoms. Here I introduce Sano, because he's always such fun.

NOTE - Version 2.0. Major plot error fixed. Kenshin has never (never!) met Tomoe. Sorry to those who were confused.

Disclaimer – I don't own. Don't sue.

* * *

**CHAPTER TWO**

* * *

Kenshin slid the shoji closed behind him, paused a moment to lean against the wall, his eyes closed as he breathed deeply in and out, trying to regain some shreds of his normal composure. Katsura-san's impassive control usually had a calming effect on him, and he often found himself relaxing in his leader's presence, but this time –

This time, the still, calm fatalism had been stifling.

Katsura-san was dying. He had known it for some time, now, but to hear it so clearly stated, to look into those clear, driven eyes and see the shadow of death …

"Ne, Himura-san," spoke a clear, bright, almost childish voice. "You look rather pale. Have you received some bad news?"

Kenshin sighed. Seta Soujiro, Shishio's own implacable killer. A deliberate parallel.

He had known, from the first time he had looked into the boy's smiling, empty eyes, that Shishio had no intention of serving under Okubo, once Katsura-san was gone.

"You should not have been so extravagant, Soujiro," he said quietly. "It will catch the attention of the police, and the anti-yakuza task force, and they will blame us all for it."

Soujiro did not look in the least surprised. "Police can be bought off, or dealt with. Yamazuki-san did not pay his dues, Himura-san. Would you have us look weak?"

"That is a matter for Katsura-san alone to decide. Your master took too much upon himself."

But the smiling killer only laughed. "It is only a matter of time, Himura-san."

* * *

Later that night, Kaoru followed the lieutenant through the doors of yet another illegal nightclub and gambling joint, blinking at the writhing, thrashing crowd and the solid wall of sound and flashing lights. So far, they had been through four other clubs, questioning, searching for people more scared of Saito than of Katsura, and for one particular street tough.

"There he is." Saito mouthed, nodding towards a rowdy crowd of gamblers in the far corner. "Sagara Sanosuke."

Kaoru followed his gaze to a young, cocky bravo in an ancient, stained white jacket and a red bandanna. "Him?" she asked incredulously.

The lieutenant nodded. "Him."

They made their way through the crowd, most of the patrons giving way before them, casting fearful, hate-filled looks at Saito. Kaoru, her back stiffened by her determination to gain Saito's acceptance, forced herself to walk casually, holding her head straight up and her eyes level, ignoring all the leers and wolf-whistles directed her way. Then they drew level with their target, who, though he could not possibly be unaware of their presence, chose to ignore them.

"Ahou."

All of the other gamblers scrambled to their feet, inventing excuses to be elsewhere. Slowly, with deliberate insolence, Sagara turned his head and regarded them. His eyes, Kaoru noticed, were only slightly glazed, despite the almost empty bottle beside him.

"Saito," he said, deliberately pouring and tossing back another shot. "What do you want, you bastard?"

Saito smiled, drew deeply on his cigarette, the crimson glow reflected in his eyes. "Tell me what you know about Showgirls."

"Keh." Sagara shrugged, supremely unimpressed. "I don't run with the Ishin Shishi. You should know that."

"No. But you know everything that matters in Tokyo."

"Listen, I don't have to tell you nothing, cop –"

Saito drew out his baton and slammed it on the table, just missing Sagara's hand. "Tell me about Showgirls."

For a long, tense moment, Saito and the street tough stared at each other, testing each other's resolve – and then Sagara gave in. "Old Yamazuki wasn't playing the game," he began, pouring himself another shot, his hand absolutely steady. "Everyone knew it. But you know, he and Katsura, they go way back – we thought there would be a warning, first, just as a courtesy."

"But someone else jumped the gun?"

Sagara snorted. "Yeah, you could say someone jumped the gun. Katsura wouldn't have ordered the hit – that's not how he works."

Kaoru saw Saito's eyes sharpen. "Is there dissension in the upper ranks?

"Look, man – I don't know; I've got nothing to do with –"

"Has Battousai switched loyalties?"

"What the fu–? No! He's Katsura's man, to the bone."

"Then there's another hitokiri. And another man controlling him."

Sagara sighed, his bravado wilting around the edges. "That's the rumour on the street, yes. Some people still think Battousai did it, but he wouldn't have killed them all. Not after Tokugawa Iemon. Katsura won't risk losing him again."

Kaoru recognized the name. Fifteen years ago, Tokugawa Iemon had been murdered at his son's sixth birthday party, along with his whole household and all the assembled guests. That had been Katsura's first, emphatic declaration of intent – and, as rumour had it, the closest he'd ever come to losing his hitokiri's willing loyalty.

She thought it odd, the indications of conscience in a killer with such a terrifying reputation.

"Do you know who this new player is? Is Okubo tired of waiting to inherit?"

"No, and I don't want to know either. Take off, cop. I wouldn't want anyone to get the wrong impression."

Saito considered him, smoke trickling through his nostrils, his eyes narrowed in calculation. "Is the old man losing it?"

For the first time, Sagara gaped, off balance, his eyes wide and shocked. He recovered quickly, scowling, his macho bravado returned tenfold. "As far as I know, Katsura's healthy as a horse. Now get lost. I've got a reputation to maintain."

Kaoru opened her mouth to push him further, but Saito held up a hand and withdrew his baton. "Go on, ahou. Run back to your women, your dice and your sake."

Sagara glared. "Keh. Goddamned cops, sticking their noses where they don't belong." He stood up abruptly, snatched his bottle off the table, and almost knocked Kaoru over as he stalked away.

They watched him force his way through the crowd to the entrance.

"Well?" Saito asked. "What do you think?" His eyes watched her, measuring, judging.

"He's afraid," Kaoru said, fascinated and amused by the tough, cocky thug. "And he doesn't look the type to be easily scared."

Saito's lip curled. "He's too stubborn, with more raw courage than common sense. He's a loner, a renegade – he's not affiliated with anyone, but stays neutral because he has one very influential friend."

"And now he's worried not even this influential friend could save him?"

"No. He's worried about his influential friend. And that's what worries me."

* * *

Sano escaped the psycho cop's clutches and strode out onto the streets, his hands buried in his pockets, his old, familiar jacket surrounding him with memories of Sagara-taichou and the Sekihoutai, before old man Katsura had them wiped out.

"_Is the old man losing it?"_

If he was, Sano would dance in the street on the day he heard Katsura Kogoro was dead. But that would also mean that the iron grip he'd held on the underworld would be released, and the chaos and upheaval of the succession would lead to another gang war like the one ten years ago.

And this time, there would be another hitokiri, not nearly as scrupulous as Kenshin was.

Strange to think of hitokiri Battousai, that stone-cold killer, as an honourable man. He'd first met Kenshin some six years ago, when he'd been a hotheaded young punk obsessed with revenge against the Ishin Shishi. In his clouded, drug- and alcohol-hazed mind, he'd thought that if he defeated the Ishin's strongest fighter, it might somehow vindicate, or even bring back the Sekihoutai –

He'd never know why Kenshin didn't just kill him.

Instead, he'd disarmed Sano in two swift moves, knocked him out, and brought him back to his own empty, soulless little flat. There, Kenshin looked after him until he was strong enough – and sober enough – to leave, making a point of looking out for him for nearly six months afterwards. At the time, Sano had been less than appreciative – but now, six years later, he could see that without Kenshin's quiet, grave presence behind him, he would have thrown himself, drunk and despairing, into suicidal trouble.

And Sano always paid his debts.

* * *

His conversation with Saito still playing endlessly through his mind, he shoved his way to the head of the long line waiting for admittance into the latest, most fashionable nightclub in downtown Tokyo. One of the huge doormen stepped out to block his way, staring fiercely at him, until the other, recognizing him, came up beside him and manufactured a false white smile.

"Zanza," he said, his voice flat. "Do you have an invitation?"

"I want to see Katsura," Sano replied, deliberately looming over them. There were times when it paid to be taller than average.

The first doorman snorted. "He wants to see Katsura-san, does he? There are a lot of people who want to see Katsura-san –"

Losing patience with the petty games, Sano smashed his fist into his stomach. As he collapsed, his eyes bulging, his mouth gaping, Sano smiled pleasantly at the second doorman.

"Well?"

The crowd behind him whispered and oohed and aahed, some of the more cautious men leading their girlfriends away, hoping to avoid any trouble.

"Fuck you, you prick," the doorman growled, clenching his fists and preparing to attack him.

Sano grinned, clenching his own fists, the anticipation rising, but a harsh command stopped him. "Sagara!"

It was Katagai, Katsura's chief of staff. "Heh, Katagai. Tell this fool to let me in; I need to speak to Katsura."

The tall, blocky man's lip curled. "Come in, then," he said with bad grace. "You're lucky; Katsura-san wants to speak to _you_."

Sano grinned triumphantly at the doorman as he walked past him, into the club, following in Katagai's wake. He'd thought it would be far, far harder to penetrate the inner sanctum of the Ishin Shishi – especially with his reputation. Still, on the way in, he could see the still, watchful faces of the security men, standing out from the crowd with their colourful tattoos and their hard eyes. As they got closer to the upper level, where he could only just see a group of bigwigs, Sano saw the cold-eyed, dangerous bodyguards, personally trained and selected by Kenshin himself for the job –

And then he came face to face with the old man himself, the man who held Kenshin's strings.

"Ah, Sagara," Katsura said. "Thank you for coming." He smiled, and waved Sano to a seat – hastily vacated by a small, bespectacled man in a dull suit.

Sano did not sit down. "What would you have done if I hadn't come to you?" he challenged.

Katsura considered him, measuring him with dark, charismatic, intelligent eyes. "I would have had you fetched," he answered softly. "Tell me why you came to see me."

Sano blinked, struggling not to show that Katsura had spooked him.

"I had a visit from Saito tonight. He wanted to know who the Ishin Shishi's new hitokiri was, and whether it was you controlling him, or Okubo or a rival looking to take your place." He threw the answer out, hoping to get at least some type of response, but Katsura's face remained calm, impassive and unreadable.

"And what did you say, Sagara?"

"That as far as I knew, Kenshin was still your man and that you were still firmly in control of the Ishin Shishi. But it was obvious that he knew something I didn't –"

"Oh?"

"He knows Kenshin didn't kill Yamazuki or smash up Showgirls. I told him that you didn't order the hit – and he took off on his own from there."

Katagai growled something about traitors and knowing too much, but Katsura held up a hand, silencing him.

"It is not too much of a leap, Katagai. Himura has long shied away from extravagant displays – all of Kyoto and Tokyo know it, and so does Saito. Tell me, Sagara, what did you think of the girl with him?"

"The girl?" Sano frowned, vaguely remembering a woman at Saito's side, looking uncomfortable and acutely out of place – but women had never been very high on his list of priorities, and he'd paid her scant attention. "She looked uncomfortable. Out of place – as if she'd never been to a gambling den before."

"Was she attractive, Sagara," Katsura expanded patiently. "As a man, were you drawn to her?"

"Well, I suppose she was good-looking enough," Sano floundered, out of his depth. "She had nice eyes. Although," he grinned, reminiscent, "she did outstare all the creeps who were leering at her – she held her head up, and looked 'em right in the eye. You've got to admire that."

"Hmm." The gang leader stared at him for a while longer, and then nodded. "Thank you, Sagara. That will be all." He made a dismissive signal, turning away to stare out the glass windows at the Tokyo nightscape below.

* * *

Katagai grabbed his arm and drew him away, ignoring all his questions and demands to know what the hell was going on, all but tossing him out of the great Katsura-sama's presence. Drawing himself away, Sano growled and turned on the chief of staff.

"What the hell was all that about?"

But the bulky, hard-faced man only shrugged. "That is Katsura-san's business, Sagara. If he wants to tell you, he'll tell you."

"Keh. I don't know how Kenshin puts up with the bastard. It's creepy – like he never shows anything."

Katagai's eyes hardened, but Sano was too absorbed in his own concerns to notice. "Where's Kenshin? I have to tell him the cops are asking questions about him."

"Himura is in Kyoto, taking care of important business," Katagai said. "If you know what's best for you, you'll stay away from him, Sagara. There's trouble coming, and he'll be in the thick of it. He always is."

"Do you think I care for that?" Sano spat contemptuously. "I'm not going to split at the first sign of trouble." He growled, low in his throat, and Katagai looked at him in some surprise, reassessing his first opinion of him.

"No," he said, very quietly, watching the tall, brash youth walk away. "I don't think you will."

* * *

From the vantage point of the window, high above the street, Katsura watched Sagara swagger away, envying him his youth, his careless strength, and his easy, lazy confidence.

"What do you think of him, Katagai?" he asked.

"A street thug," Katagai answered dismissively. "A punk. But he is…protective of Himura."

Katsura smiled slightly. "Protective. Not so long ago, he was determined to kill him." He had questioned Himura's decision to let the boy live – but here was the result. Sometimes, Himura could attract loyalty from the most unlikely candidates…

"If I may ask, Katsura-san, why did you ask him about the girl? Sagara is notoriously blind in such matters."

"A test." He shrugged dismissively. Katagai made a small, unconvinced _hmph, _but when Katsura volunteered nothing more, he held his peace.

* * *

A/N – Feedback is greatly appreciated. A great collective thank-you to all my reviewers.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N** – **So many ideas, so much inspiration, and no patience to pin them all down and type them up…

Disclaimer – I don't own Ruroken. Don't sue.

**

* * *

**

**Chapter 3**

* * *

Saito scowled at the phone.

"Trouble?" Kaoru asked, not liking the expression on his face.

"An Ishin turncoat." He drew out a cigarette, put it between his lips, and lit it with casual expertise. "The Commissioner of Police in Kyoto wants me to interrogate him."

"Well, that makes sense. Since Katsura moved to Tokyo, he's lost some of his iron grip on Kyoto. If there were traitors, that's where they would –"

"There are no Ishin traitors. They all die."

Kaoru looked down at the file she had been examining before the phone rang. Saito had handed it to her yesterday, after they'd questioned Sagara; it was, he said, the culmination of fifteen long years, chasing rumours, ghosts, and wild geese –

_Hitokiri Battousai._

It was a name straight out of urban legend. Many influential law enforcement officers thought him a myth, a psychological terror that Katsura – the master of mind games – had created in order to spread fear and chaos among his enemies. Saito, on the other hand, believed him to be very real, and very dangerous; fifteen years ago, when he'd been a lowly patrol officer working the worst streets in Kyoto, he'd witnessed Battousai's work at first hand.

He'd even caught a glimpse of him, once or twice…

"Are you sure you're not giving Katsura too much credit, sir? Surely it's possible that a traitor _could _conceal himself long enough – well enough – to reach the police without being cut down?"

"No." Saito's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Too many have tried and failed over the years; for one to succeed now is just too convenient. It's a plot. A conspiracy."

Kaoru fought the urge to sigh. She recognized all the signs of a dangerous obsession in Saito's determination to destroy the Ishin Shishi and bring Battousai to justice. But it was useless to remonstrate with him; he was notoriously single-minded and almost impossible to turn from his chosen course.

"All the more reason to find out what's going on, then," she said. "Are we going to Kyoto?"

He snorted. "Are you sure you want to be in on this interrogation? It might become a little…heated."

"Yes, sir," she straightened her back resolutely. "I said I could handle this and I will. I can take everything you can throw at me."

"Hnn." Saito looked distinctly skeptical, but she thought she saw admiration in his sneer. "Very well then, Kamiya. Pack your bags. We'll take the shinkansen, and be in Kyoto by noon."

* * *

Kenshin had no real liking for Kyoto. There were too many ghosts, too many memories of death and blood; the streets held too many reminders of the young, jaded hitokiri he had once been. But although Katsura-san had moved the headquarters of the Ishin Shishi to Tokyo, he still controlled the Kyoto underworld – maintaining his grip with loyal enforcers, and the threat of hitokiri Battousai. In the last ten years, Kenshin had made some five or six trips back to the old capital, his swords the final arbiter of Katsura-san's will.

Unconsciously, he rubbed at the little finger on his left hand, where the tip of the finger was missing. Fifteen years ago, when the cut had been fresh, still aching, he'd gone back to his shishou's battered, run-down dojo, hoping for one last chance to talk. Hiko Seijuro – broke, unshaven, drunk, but still terribly, terribly proud – had seen the bandage and thrown him out, turning his back with awful condemnation.

Kenshin smiled sadly, his mutilated hand dropping to the hilts of his swords, concealed under a long, black leather trench coat. Gifts from Katsura-san, all of them.

He had spent more than half his life in faithful and honourable service. His loyalty had never been questioned, his honour never impugned; he was known all throughout the Japanese underworld Katsura-san's incorruptible, implacable enforcer. And now, at this crucial stage, when he should have been right by Katsura-san's side, sticking like glue, he was sent to Kyoto on a fool's errand –

A petty traitor, not worth soiling his swords with. Surely, he'd argued, other, lesser enforcers could deal with it? Usually, he killed only the dangerous ones: ambitious rivals, rebels who posed a serious challenge, or traitors and spies who could bring them all down if they talked. He did not kill to set examples; he killed to protect Katsura-san and the Ishin Shishi. He killed to preserve the order that Katsura-san had brought to the streets of Kyoto and Tokyo, not to reinforce it.

But Katsura-san had made his instructions very clear, in their last interview. _Go to Kyoto, _he had said, in his quiet, firm voice. _There is a turncoat in police custody. Silence him._

Fifteen years he had served Katsura-san well. He could not break faith with him now.

* * *

"I know you are not a fool, Katsura-san," Okubo said respectfully, peering down the length of the long, polished boardroom table. "But his intentions are clear for all to see. Why do you turn a blind eye?"

All around him, the section heads of the Ishin Shishi – with the notable exception of Shishio Makoto – nodded and murmured their agreement. At the head of the table, Katsura was dressed in a tailored Western suit, looking just as comfortable here in this modern, corporate setting as he did in his sparse traditional room. For as long as Okubo had known him, he'd been a man of many facets – sincere and honourable enough to command the loyalty of a man like Himura, and ruthless and amoral enough to dominate and intimidate big businessmen.

"Would you have me provoke another war?" Katsura asked, looking him straight in the eye. "The police watch us, always waiting for a chance to bring us down."

"Later or sooner, we will have a war. He will be satisfied with nothing less. Crush him now, I say, before he grows too strong; send in Himura and wipe him out along with every single one of his ten swords. He could do it easily."

"No."

The flat, uncompromising denial drew stares from every single man in the room. Okubo spoke for all of them. "Why not?" Katsura had not hesitated to wipe out Saigo Takamori, his old friend and comrade, whom he had left in charge of Kyoto – why then did he hesitate to eliminate Shishio, a man who had only joined once it became clear the Ishin would win?

"Be easy, Okubo, my old friend. I understand – indeed, I share – your concern, but it is better to wait, and be patient. And that," he raised his voice to address the rest of the section heads, "applies to all of you, too. Do not be drawn into a confrontation, and do not provoke him into one, either."

There were several incredulous, disbelieving looks, but no one was yet brave enough to question Katsura's direct order. Shishio's thugs were growing increasingly bold, pushing their limits, testing to see how far they could go before the rest of their comrades reacted. There had been a number of flare-ups, none of them serious yet – but, as Okubo had said, it was clear for all to see.

However, if Katsura-san ordered them to wait, then wait they would.

* * *

Saito stood behind a two-way mirror, looking down into the Interrogation Room at the small, seedy looking dealer who had turned traitor to the Ishin Shishi.

"That's him?" Kamiya asked, her expression dubious. "He doesn't look like he'd know much…"

"A bottom feeder," Saito said, glaring at the Commissioner in disgust. "You dragged me all the way out here for this?"

Uwamura-san, the Commissioner of the Kyoto Police, gave Saito a pointed look in return. "This is the first defector in fifteen years who's survived long enough to report back to us. You've always lamented the lack of hard intelligence, Saito-san –"

"What hard intelligence can he give us? He's a petty crook, probably not worth the trouble of taking him out."

"What more do you want, Lieutenant?" The Commissioner raised his voice, frustrated. "Live informants don't grow on trees, you know!"

Just then, the door to the interrogation room opened and a uniformed officer entered. The dealer turned to him, sneering, insolent –

Saito pressed a button and spoke to the officer, who had an earpiece in his ear. "Tell that bastard that if he doesn't cooperate, we'll toss him back out onto the streets to face his compatriots."

The officer complied, and the seedy informant paled noticeably. Regaining his bravado, he glared at the glass wall behind which the observers stood, and shouted out; "I want to talk to Saito! I'm sick of all this pussyfooting around; get me Saito, and then we'll talk."

Saito leaned against the glass and lit up a cigarette, knowing that the glow would reflect through the mirror and alert the man to his presence.

"Tell him to talk," he instructed the uniformed officer. "And it better be good; I've got better things to occupy my time."

In response, the dealer shouted out that he wanted protective custody and a guarantee of amnesty –

"Talk first. Then we'll see."

Trapped, the informant gave in.He sang.

* * *

"Battousai-san," two of the Kyoto higher-ups greeted him, surprised, as he stepped off the plane. "We thought… Katsura-san did not…"

"It was a sudden decision," he said, saving them face. "What can you tell me about the traitor?"

As they walked to the car, one of the lackeys handed him a manila file and a large black and white photograph. "His name is Iizuka. As far as we can tell, he did it for the money –"

Kenshin's contempt for men who pursued and courted money was well known.

"He made it to the police before we realized what he was going to do. Currently, he's in protective custody, surrounded by guards: we can't get at him in the police station."

Kenshin scowled. "I can." He jerked the door open, tossed the file onto the leather seat, and slid in. The others followed, a little stunned by such a bald statement of lethality –

"Battousai-san?"

"They won't be expecting an attack. Get me the building layout." A quick infiltration, a routine killing, and then he would be free to return to Katsura-san in Tokyo. He, of all people, knew how dangerous the boy-killer Soujiro was…

"Hai. But there is one other thing – Saito is also at the police station." The unfortunate victim chosen to relate that news watched nervously for his reaction – years ago, during the worst of the bloody years, Saito's perseverance and almost inhuman instincts had almost led to Kenshin's capture and death.

On the other hand, Kenshin's speed and ruthless determination had put Saito in hospital for six weeks, during which time the lieutenant's partner, wife, and two young children were blown away by an overzealous newcomer looking to make his mark. Katsura-san had ordered Kenshin to kill the foolish upstart, and then had his head delivered to Saito's bedside in the hospital as an apology, but the damage had already been done.

Kenshin's mouth tightened.

A fool's errand, suddenly made dangerous; a wolf, drawn to the scent of blood –

Cop killing.

Tokyo was too far away.

* * *

The interrogation took most of the afternoon and spilled into the night. Most of it was petty stuff, rumours, gossip, nothing that they couldn't get off the street. But when Iizuka began to speak of a man named Shishio, whose ambitions were making some of the top echelons nervous, Kaoru saw that Saito's interest was piqued. The informant didn't know much, but what he did know was intriguing…

"Tell me of this 'Tenken'," Saito ordered. "He is a hitokiri?"

Iizuka shook his head, sweat dripping from his forehead although the air-conditioning was cranked all the way up. "No. No, he's not one of the old man's hitokiri. He's Shishio's man; they say he's going to be Shishio's Battousai. He's good, real good – I saw him once, a smiling killer. Gave me the creeps."

"Why?" Saito asked bluntly.

"Why did he give me the creeps? He's a bloodthirsty demon – he doesn't kill them clean, likes to leave a more emphatic statement. I tell you, people are more afraid of him than they are of Battousai."

It was clear, from his tone, which of the two he feared more – Kaoru heard fearful awe in his voice as he spoke of Battousai, the shadow killer of the last war, but true terror whenever he mentioned the Tenken.

She thought it strange, when it would not be the Tenken seeking to silence him.

"So," Saito said, exhaling smoke. "Another war is coming." He pushed himself of the wall, standing up straight –

The door banged open, and the same uniformed officer from before staggered in, his face white. "Lieutenant!" he choked out, panting heavily. "You need to see this…"

* * *

Their first clue came when the security monitors winked out, one by one by one. The guards, who had been expecting snipers or bombs, were not prepared for an actual infiltration of the building, and it took them a while to realize that something was wrong.

Kenshin, who had absolutely no expertise with computers, could only marvel at the technology and expertise of the young men serving as his assistants. The young men, in turn, had been too excited at the thought of helping in an assassination – it had been too long since the last full-scale war. No matter that they talked abominably and sported outrageous hair and clothes, they knew their stuff, and allowed him to get into the depths of the police station undetected.

Once he was in, he could do all the rest by himself.

* * *

"Someone's hacked the system," the system monitors said, disbelieving. "Goddamn kids."

"No," Saito said flatly, his body suddenly taut and ready for action. "They've come for him."

"They couldn't possibly attack the Kyoto Central police station," the uniformed officer protested. "They just – can't!"

"Battousai can."

Kaoru frowned. "But surely, if he's just a small-time bit player…"

"Old Man Katsura's fighting for grip. He can't afford any mistakes, any slips." Saito's hand dropped to his waist, to his police issue firearm. His knuckles clenched, white and taut, as his hand tightened in anticipation.

* * *

Dressed in a borrowed police uniform, his wakizashi able to pass at a distance for a nightstick, his long hair (braided and dyed black for the occasion) just another sign of the degeneration of Japanese youth, he walked unhurried through the corridors. These days, he preferred to keep the collateral damage down to a bare minimum; once he would have carved his way through the police with no regard for anything but his goal, but he was no longer a hot-blooded, reckless adolescent.

Looking serious and purposeful, he blended in with the rest of the crowd going about their business, slowly making his way towards the lifts.

* * *

"…How will we identify him? No one's ever seen him up close…"

"…Ten feet tall, with eyes of fire…"

"…Demon killer…"

"…Never fails… Impossible to placate…"

Kaoru listened with half an ear to the buzzing speculation all around her. She knew that the assassin would have to make his way here, and that all they had to do was wait for him to come. They didn't want to cause a panic in the station, or to warn Battousai that his presence had been noted, and so had not announced that there was an intruder – but this was a very busy floor.

She had a vantage point in the foyer, where all the stairs and lifts opened onto the floor, and was searching busily for anyone who looked remotely suspicious or gangster-like. So far, she had seen only cops –

And then she saw him.

* * *

The lift dinged, and the doors opened, and Kenshin and his fellow passengers stepped out onto the interrogation rooms' floor. A swift, comprehensive glance around the foyer showed that his presence had been anticipated – too many people trying too hard to be unobtrusive – and he cursed all traitors and hastily put together operations.

If he had to, he would carve his way through the watchers and reach Iizuka across the body of every single one of his police guards, but he had no heart for it. Hastening, looking around furtively, he went up to one of the guards and, dropping his voice, whispered that he'd seen him, over there –

He pointed to his right, down the end of the corridor, and the fool clapped him on the shoulder, nodded purposefully, and ordered his whole squad to follow him down the corridor. Kenshin watched them go, and walked, unchallenged, through the foyer.

He did not see her.

He would wonder about that, later, that she did not register as a threat, or trigger any mental alarms.

He walked straight past her, and up to the room where a helpful receptionist had told him Lieutenant Saito was conducting an interrogation. Pausing a moment before he knocked on the door, he loosened the hilt of his wakizashi –

And then he went in.

* * *

Kaoru, hidden deeply within a shadowed alcove, saw the uniformed officer arrive, saw him point out a corridor, and thought that they had the hitokiri pinned when the police guards raced in pursuit. But then she saw that _all _the guards were gone, and that the uniform, far from following them, was walking slowly and purposefully towards the interrogation room. A dedicated kendo practitioner, she recognized the smooth, balanced grace of his walk, the confidence of a martial arts master in the way he moved, the way he held himself. His hand hovered over the nightstick sheathed at his left hip –

It was not a nightstick. It was a _sword. _

Terrified, she pressed herself tightly against the wall, trembling, her hands slick on the gun that Saito had given her – 'as a precaution'. Thisshort, smooth-faced young manwas the terrifying hitokiri, the demon of Kyoto. Shaking, she tried to nerve herself up, tried to force herself to move, to do _something, _but her body was frozen; all she could do was watch him as he passed.

Then he reached the door, gripped his wakizashi, and went in.

Kaoru closed her eyes, and waited for the screams.

* * *

As always, when he went into action, the world seemed to slow down around him, while he himself speeded up. When he kicked the door in, diving to the floor, rising to draw his sword in a flashing arc and gut the first guard, everything seemed to be moving in slow motion, even the flying drops of blood. Pushing up off his knee, he spun, dodging a bullet fired behind him, heard –

"Don't fire, you fools! You'll hit our own men!"

And, coldly satisfied with his calculations, set about doing what he did best – swift, smooth slaughter. Spinning, slashing, ducking to avoid blows from truncheons and nightsticks, twisting and turning, his crimsoned blade flashing, always cool, always aware. One by one they fell before him, screaming, silenced –

And then he stood, panting slightly, six corpses fallen around him, and Saito coolly holding a gun on him, his hand rock-steady, his ever-present cigarette glowing hellishly.

"Do you think you can?" he asked conversationally, slowly bending his knees, renewing his grip on the blood-soaked hilt.

"Do you think I won't?" Saito countered. "Battousai."

Kenshin did not smile. He gave no warning – one moment he was still, and the next he was in motion, springing into top speed, hurtling towards the ruthless lieutenant, who coolly squeezed off one shot before Kenshin reached him, his sword out –

At the last moment, he pulled the stroke, twisted his wrist, and slammed the hilt into Saito's temple, dropping him like a stunned ox.

Silently, he stared down at the unconscious wolf, and wondered at what he had done. After a while, he stepped over the sprawled body, and made his way into the bleak, cold room where Iizuka cowered.

It took only one stroke.

* * *

Kaoru stood in the middle of the foyer, listening to the sounds of running feet and exclaiming voices as the guards made their way back from their detour. Her hands, still shaking, held the gun up, extended, pointing towards the doorway from where the screaming had come, the screaming and then the terrible silence, and then one, single gunshot.

Slowly, the door opened, and she swallowed heavily, tightening her grip on the gun.

"Stop!" she whispered hoarsely, her throat tight and dry. "Stop, hitokiri Battousai!"

The assassin looked up, and she stared straight into cold, flat, empty golden eyes. Without looking away, he flicked the blood off his blade, slid it up to the mouth of the sheath, and slid it home, all with impeccable grace and the ease of long, long practice.

"I will shoot!" she warned. Desperately, she tried to still her shaking hands and keep the gun steady, but he was advancing on her slowly and purposefully, every deliberate footstep leaving a red stain on the white tiled floor.

He tensed, gathering himself –

Kaoru closed her eyes, and pulled the trigger.

* * *

A/N – Dun, dun, dunn! (laughs maniacally)

Merry Christmas to all my reviewers, and thank you for your support and comments. Feedback is always greatly appreciated.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N – Only a short chapter this time, but then the previous three were longer than my norm. You could call this a small interlude, after the huge cliffhanger last chapter.

Disclaimer – I don't own Ruroken. Don't sue.

**

* * *

**

**CHAPTER FOUR**

* * *

It was safe, here, in the warm darkness. Kenshin strained weakly, reaching out –

_Live, Shinta. _

* * *

"Katsura-san."

Katsura turned to Katagai, one eyebrow raised.

"Wakamura called, from Kyoto. Himura has disappeared." Katagai's voice was cool and neutral, as always, no sign of his thoughts showing.

"Why?" Himura usually had excellent reasons for his actions; disappearance did not automatically equate to treachery. After Tokugawa Iemon's death – after the ill-fated birthday party – he had disappeared for nearly two weeks.

"Wakamura doesn't know. He completed the job – killed six policemen besides – but he didn't come back to the compound. Our informers in the police say that he was shot."

Katsura's heart skipped a beat. For fifteen years, Himura had stayed, calm and steady, at his back – the success of his long-term plans relied on it.

"Not seriously, I should hope."

"No, I don't think so. The police would have been shouting it to the skies."

"Hmmm…" He breathed out slowly, composing himself. "Six policemen."

"Yes. But he let Saito live."

Katsura huffed a small, rueful laugh.

* * *

Shattered glass.

Splatters and pools of blood.

Harsh, flashing red and blue lights –

Everywhere she looked, the memory of last night's terrible violence remained. Kaoru's hands shook. She could still hear the thundering roar, feel the brutal recoil as she'd pulled the trigger –

"Kamiya." Saito, a bandage tied rakishly around his head, put a hand on her shoulder. "No one expected you to kill him."

"H-he looked right at me," she said, her voice quavering. "His eyes were so cold…"

The wolf's eyes were flat and cynical. "So. Now you know."

* * *

Sano got off the train in Kyoto, hitching his duffel bag higher up on his back. He was almost a day behind Kenshin; he had no idea where he was, but Sano was streetwise enough to know how to find him. When Katsura said that he'd sent him to Kyoto on 'business', it could mean only one thing – an assassination.

And the aftermath and fallout of Battousai's assassinations reverberated through the underworld for days.

Cocky, confident in his own strength, Sano swaggered into a bar frequented by rough, tough bikers. The conversation level dropped as he entered, and the patrons looked up to see who had come in – dismissing him, they turned back to their drinks and their conversations. Once, he had craved the kind of paralysing silence Kenshin caused every time he entered a room, but over the years, he'd found it was much better this way.

The bartender, a hard-faced, greying old man dressed in battered leather and old, unwashed jeans gave him a hard look as he approached, his hand dipping below the bar. "If you've come to bust up my place again, Sagara," he growled, his accent thick and rough, "just remember that times are changing in Kyoto."

Yes, this was only one of the many indications that something very big was in the wind.

"I don't need anyone to fight my battles for me, asshole," he said, slapping his hands on the bar and leaning over it. "Don't pull that baseball bat out, or I'll fucking make you eat it. I just want some info."

The old man sneered, lifting his hand slowly and ostentatiously to shoulder height – but without the aluminium baseball bat he kept below the bar. "What do you want?"

Sano sank down onto a stool. "Where is he?"

The bartender hawked and spat contemptuously on the floor. "Your assassin friend? Haven't you seen the papers today?"

"What the hell does that mean?" Sano demanded hotly, a sick feeling in his stomach.

The old man grinned, displaying rotten, jagged teeth. "The silent, discreet assassin, the faceless, anonymous killer hitokiri Battousai – do you know what he did? Last night, he attacked the Kyoto Central police station."

"What?"

Clenching his fists, Sano ground his teeth together and fought down the urge to smash the old bastard's head into the wall.

"He slaughtered six policemen to silence one petty informer. One of them managed to shoot him. If I didn't know better, I'd say someone set him up –"

"Bullshit. The old man himself sent him."

The bartender only shrugged. "There you go."

Sano reached over and grabbed the man by the collar, twisting it tightly, half-dragging him over the bar. "Shut your mouth! Katsura would never –"

A hard, heavy hand clamped down on his shoulder. He turned to find a huge, muscular man glaring down at him, flexing his muscles threateningly. Sano let the bartender drop, grinned rakishly, and swung –

Two fun-filled minutes later, Sano stood alone with seven or eight groaning, swearing tough men on the floor at his feet. Cracking his knuckles and stretching a few sore muscles, he turned back to the bar.

"Now," he said pleasantly. "What were you saying?"

* * *

It was ten in the morning, when persistent, thunderous hammering on the shutters woke him from his drunken stupor. Hiko Seijiuro, 13th Master of the Hiten Mitsurugi Ryu – for what it was worth – forced himself to his feet, rising to his full six feet before stumbling to the door and jerking it open.

"Who the hell are you?" he growled, attempting his most terrifying glare.

The stranger at his door took a step back. "K'so! _You're _Kenshin's teacher?"

Hiko slammed the door in his face.

"Oi!" The pounding resumed, along with some very creative swearing and abuse. Incensed with this early morning irritation, Hiko once more stumped to the door and jerked it open.

"What!"

"Where is he?" The stranger looked tired, stressed, and irritated. "I want to talk to Kenshin. Tell him it's Sano."

Hiko glared at him. "I don't know anyone with that name. And even if I did, he ought to know better than to show his face here again." He made to slam the door, but the stranger shoved his foot in the way.

"He killed six cops last night."

"The more fool he, then. Now, be gone –" He hooked his foot around the stranger's ankle, tugged –

The stranger slammed his palm against the door. "They say he's been shot. No one can find him."

There was a long moment of silence. Hiko stared at the young, stubborn stranger, who glared back at him with reckless, hotheaded determination.

"Tell me."

They went inside, the stranger staring in unabashed curiosity at the scarred, battered walls, the old, grey tatami, and the profusion of empty sake bottles and pottery vessels arranged haphazardly on the shelves. As they sat down, the stranger talked, beginning with the story of a massacre at a nightclub, and ending with his rough and ready interrogation of a man who could tell him nothing.

"He did say, however, that Kenshin's master lived in this dojo. So I thought…" the young stranger trailed off, shrugging.

Hiko scowled, remembering the last time his baka deshi had returned to him, and how he'd turned him away, threatening to kill him if he ever came back. The sight of his mutilated finger had shaken him, that unmistakable sign of allegiance and absolute loyalty…

"You said something about his being shot."

The stranger's mouth tightened. "The newspapers are saying that some of the police officers got a shot off at him, that he was limping heavily and leaving a trail of blood behind him as he escaped. But when they followed it, it stopped in the middle of nowhere."

"Hnn." Not even Kenshin would be fool enough to leave a recognisable blood trail behind him. But it sounded as if the idiot had injured himself, and had gone to ground – in the one place where no one who did not know him would ever think to look.

"Gion," he said finally.

"_Gion?_"

Hiko snorted. "What? Is it so unbelievable?"

* * *

The proprietoress of the Plum Blossom teahouse greeted the huge old man warmly. "Hiko-san!" she breathed, almost relieved. "We thought you would not come."

Sano snorted. The old bastard wouldn't have known about Kenshin if he hadn't told him.

"We found him, collapsed by the back door at about four o'clock this morning. He's been badly injured, but we daren't call the doctor…"

She turned and led the way into the elegant, traditionally furnished building. "They say he's been shot," Hiko said.

"He has. It went through his upper chest; we took it out and bandaged it."

They followed her through the corridor towards the back of the house, where she slid aside a shoji screen to reveal a dark, quiet room, where a small, pale form sprawled bonelessly on the futon.

"Kenshin!" Sano exclaimed, rushing forward into the room. But the redhead did not wake.

* * *

Once, he had been a ragged, dirty street rat, homeless and starving, running errands, peddling secrets and intrigues, begging in the back streets of Gion. The bright ladies, gorgeous and exotic butterflies, had fluttered over him indulgently, petting and spoiling him when it suited them; three girls, in particular, had looked out for him –

_Kasumi-neechan, Akane-neechan, Sakura-neechan. I'm so sorry. I tried to protect you; I just wasn't strong enough… _

Once, he had crouched at the feet of a master swordsman. Everyone knew old Hiko-san, who had once been the master of one of the oldest, most dangerous techniques in Japan. But he'd given up on changing the world, and had settled in Gion, taking small commissions and drinking himself to death.

_With a name like Shinta, it's no wonder the older boys gang up on you. You're too small, too gentle, and too pretty – you need to learn how to protect yourself, before you can protect others._

Once, he had dreamed of order, and discipline; of a Kyoto governed by one strong, just organisation, and not weak, competing, splintered ones, driven to ever-increasing cruelty to maintain their power. He had fought, and killed, to ensure that the Ishin Shishi succeeded against all the others who had risen against the Tokugawa –

_Will you kill for me, Himura? Will you kill for order, and justice, and the memory of your three geisha friends? _

Time and experience had taught him that the world could never be so beautifully simple. But it was still a worthy dream, still worth fighting for –

Still worth killing for.

"Kenshin!"

Someone was shaking him back and forth.

"Kenshin! Wake up!"

The shaking became more insistent, jarring his wounded arm, sending streaks of pain through his body.

"_Baka deshi. Open your eyes." _

Shishou?

The habit of obedience pounded into him over years of training, Kenshin opened his eyes.

* * *

"_Ne, Shishio-san, our spies in Kyoto tell us that Battousai has been shot. Iizuka thought that the police would hide him, but Battousai followed him into the central police station itself…"_

_The dark, handsome, charismatic man chuckled evilly to himself, savouring the pleasure of the moment. Battousai's zeal and loyalty had trapped him, in the end – now every policeman in the country would be on his trail, and his usefulness to Katsura had just come to an abrupt end. He had not thought the old man such a fool – _

"_Soujiro," he said, smiling, "it is time to put our plans into motion." _

_Without his demon hitokiri at his back, Katsura was nothing more than a weak, powerless old man._

"_You know what to do." _

_The young boy, superhumanly swift and superbly skilled, with no conscience and no morals to get in the way of his loyalty, smiled emptily and bowed his head. Shishio felt a thrill of power run through him as he watched the traditional obeisance – it was exactly as Battousai bowed to Katsura, when accepting an order of assassination. He imagined himself in the old man's position, dispensing mercy and terror with both, impartial hands, his human sword always available, always willing to kill at his command._

"_Soon," he said, reassuring himself, telling himself to wait, only wait, until the time was right. "Soon, it will all fall into place, and the Ishin Shishi will be mine for the taking."_

_

* * *

_


	5. Chapter 5

A/N – Here we are with chapter 5. This is where things really begin to take off. You know what they say about the best-laid plans.

Disclaimer – I don't own Ruroken. Don't sue.

* * *

**Chapter 5**

* * *

Three days after the attack on the police station, matters came to a head in Tokyo.

"This has gone far enough, Shishio," Okubo said gravely, his face stern and set. "You and your Ten Swords have caused enough trouble; it is time you were called to account."

It was an abandoned warehouse, in the oldest, seediest part of the docks, grey, dismal and decrepit. Okubo, in his capacity as second-in-command, had called a meeting and ordered Shishio to come with all his followers; they faced each other across the concrete floor, the two leaders with their men spread out menacingly behind them.

"Okubo," Shishio said, smiling coldly. "I don't think you have the authority to call me to account. Does Katsura-san know of this?"

Shishio knew very well that Katsura had forbidden his followers to engage in any such confrontations with the Juppongatana.

"He does not need to know of it. He has refused to have you eliminated – well, I will make that decision for him."

Shishio laughed, taunting him. "You will, in effect, usurp his power? I am surprised at you. I thought you so tediously honourable–"

"Shut your mouth!" A man behind Okubo snarled. Okubo put out his hand, calming him down –

"Control your followers, Okubo, or I will control them for you. –Souji?"

The short, smiling killer stepped up beside him, two swords by his side; an unmistakable gesture of intent. Okubo drew in a deep breath.

"Do you think to intimidate me, Shishio? You are outnumbered. Your men are surrounded. One swordsman cannot hope to defeat us all. Back down, and I will spare your life."

"Back down?" Shishio sneered. "When you have made it so clear I am to be eliminated? I don't think so, Okubo. No, I think I will make another choice." Smiling horribly, he gestured to the Tenken, who stepped forward confidently –

"Are you mad?" Okubo gasped.

"No. I am merely following Katsura-san's precedent." He smiled at Soujiro. "Kill them all."

Okubo's followers, trained gangsters all, drew their guns –

Soujiro drew his sword.

* * *

Shishio's eyes burned as he watched the slaughter.

In truth, he _had _expected something of this sort; he knew that Okubo had not liked Katsura's ban on any preemptive moves, and had been waiting for someone to rebel and take action against them. The fact that it was Okubo himself only made it all the sweeter. But really, without Battousai, they had no chance.

And Battousai was injured, and hiding in Kyoto.

What was old man Katsura planning?

The gunshots echoed in the enclosed space, accompanied by screams and shouts of fear and pain; Soujiro moved like a flickering, darting snake, striking with devastating precision, taking down man after man as if they were standing still. He moved so quickly he appeared to vanish at times, utterly confounding his opponents –

Okubo was shouting, trying to rally his men, sheltering behind an old packing crate and taking calm, steady shots. A few of his followers responded, but Soujiro leapt up, sword flashing, and cut them down – then, driven on by adrenaline, he shot forward and cut down, and Okubo staggered back, blood pouring from his throat. His followers cried out, some of them redoubling their efforts, but it was too late; mercilessly, the Tenken cut them down one by one by one.

And then, some five minutes after Shishio gave the order, Soujiro stood covered in blood, surrounded by corpses. Shishio smiled. "Well done, Souji."

"Thank you, Shishio-san," the killer said, smiling pleasantly. That same empty, ever-present smile had not wavered once during the slaughter.

* * *

Katsura knelt in meditation, his eyes half-lidded and staring into nothing. Heavy, tramping footsteps sounded from outside the room, but he gave no indication of alarm – not even when the shoji was slid violently aside and four armed men rushed in, shouting, shoving their guns into his face.

"The great Katsura-san," came Shishio Makoto's gloating voice. "An old, beaten man."

Katsura did not respond.

"You sent your greatest asset away, old man. And now that Okubo is dead – oh, dear, you didn't know that, did you? Your vaunted intelligence service didn't bring you the news of our meeting? Well, rest assured that I punished him for his presumption." Shishio laughed, but Katsura merely closed his eyes –

"Your loyal second in command tried to usurp your authority, Katsura-san. Who knows what he might have tried next? Really, for your own good…"

Soft, padding footsteps came up behind him, a small, agile man, light on his feet: a swordsman, a killer. Katsura tensed, thinking of the small, concealed dagger in the small of his back, but a spine-chilling _shick _from behind him stopped him cold.

"I must insist on taking you into protective custody."

* * *

The next morning, Hiko Seijuuro stared down at his silent, limp baka deshi, flat on his back on the floor, all the vivid animation and energy of his waking spirit crushed. Kenshin had always pushed himself too hard, that strong will outstripping his body's reserves – Hiko had often had to make him rest and recharge – but never had it come this close to death.

"You're not a boy anymore, baka," he muttered under his breath, scowling ferociously. "That bastard Katsura…!"

But ultimately, he knew, it was Kenshin's decision. At fourteen, a boy's involvement with gang wars was reprehensible. At nearly thirty, it was a man's choice – especially when the man was as skilled as Kenshin was. Everything he did, he did because he felt it was right: even as a wretched, stubborn adolescent, Kenshin had followed his too-soft heart.

"Oi, Hiko-san," came the rough, casual tones of Kenshin's gangster friend. Hiko's eyebrow twitched in pure irritation. "How is he?" Sagara stalked into the room, his taut intensity a sudden change from his normal, casual slouch. Hiko noted the change suspiciously; something must be very wrong, for this boy to be so obviously upset.

"No better and no worse than he was yesterday, Sagara," he said shortly. "He's still deeply unconscious." Since he'd come round two days ago, opening his eyes for just a moment, he had lapsed into heavy unconsciousness – but Takani Megumi, the tea-house's gynecologist (and the only doctor they knew who could be counted on not to report gunshot wounds) had pronounced it normal, the natural result of such a trauma.

"Damn." Impatiently, Sagara clenched his fists, pacing up and down in short bursts. "We have to move him."

"We can't move him. We'll kill him–"

"No. You don't understand. I just got a call from Tokyo – it's all gone to hell. Okubo is dead, Katsura is out of the way – we have to get him out of here. I told Katsura where we were…"

* * *

Still reeling from the brutal attack on the police station, Saito was not prepared for the phone call that came four days later. The sudden summons to return to Tokyo – without any hint of explanation – was unsettling; more than that, he had no wish to leave Kyoto just when the search for Battousai was at its peak. They were close to finding him, he knew – the Kyoto underworld may hide its secrets well, but even the most hardened gangsters sang like birds when Saito was determined to uncover information.

However, not even he could blatantly disobey a direct order.

"Come on, Kamiya," he growled, pulling her away from her computer searches, "let's go. We're summoned back to Tokyo."

"What?" she gasped. "But we're so close to finding him!" They were running names and faces through the computer databases, hoping to find a match, and Kamiya had had the bright idea of searching for sword masters and dojos, thinking to find the man who had taught hitokiri Battousai his phenomenal skills.

"Yes, well, duty calls. Don't worry; he won't be going far, not with that bullet in his shoulder."

She scowled, but made no further complaint.

Half an hour later, they were on the shinkansen back to Tokyo, and then four hours later they stood inside the old, disused warehouse, looking down at a slaughter. Once again, the investigating officer was Shinomori Aoshi, his brilliant eyes dulled and haggard.

"Saito," he said in curt acknowledgment, and with a polite inclination of the head, "Kamiya-san. This is bad. I'd say it was the same man who did Shadowlands."

"Well, at least we know it wasn't Battousai," Saito said dryly. "There's one suspect eliminated."

A small, wintry smile touched Shinomori's lips. "We ruled him out already. Come and look at this."

He led them through the packed, stiffened bodies, slashed and hacked and cut, picking his way around the thick, sticky bloodstains, towards an old packing crate, and a headless body slumped down behind it.

Saito grunted in surprise. "Is that who I think it is?"

"Yes. The head is gone – probably a trophy, or as proof of death – but we fingerprinted him – it's Okubo all right."

"Okubo?" Kamiya exclaimed. "Okubo Toshimichi? But – that means…"

"Yes," Saito said. "Our rebel Ishin has made his move. And damned effectively, too."

Shinomori looked at them, his eyes narrowed. "A rebel Ishin…? Saito, is there something you'd like to share with me?"

"Not now." Saito dismissed the detective's suspicions. "Right now, Katsura's second in command is dead, and his strongest henchman is lying injured in Kyoto – how would you rate his chances, Shinomori?"

No one had ever called Shinomori a fool. "Whoever it was waited until Battousai was out of the way…" he said slowly, putting things together extremely swiftly. " It was as if they knew he was going to Kyoto."

"That means this plan has been in place for a long time," Kamiya breathed. "Whoever it is, they're phenomenally patient…"

Saito swore.

* * *

Deep in the bowels of an old, forgotten bunker, Katsura chafed his hands and shivered against the cold. He could feel the familiar weakness and nausea stealing over him, the debilitating illness that was slowly eating away at him – this cancer, he knew, would accomplish what no enemy had ever managed to achieve. Not even the treacherous Shishio – Katsura was set on it.

With a wry, twisted smile, Katsura had to acknowledge that Shishio was a brilliant strategist. To have orchestrated Okubo's actions, and then turn them to his own benefit; to have arranged Iizuka's betrayal, in order to get Himura out of the way. And then to leave Katsura alive, to retain at least a semblance of legitimacy…

Well, they would see how the game played out, in the end.

Katsura was not finished yet.

* * *

A/N – Finished and postedat two in the morning. And now I think I'll go to bed. Thanks for reading; please tell me what you think.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N – Here beginneth Part II: Kenshin and ors react to Shishio's move. I have borrowed from Murasahki-chan's Adoption series (specifically 'This is Swordsmanship?') the idea of Hiko as a renaissance man.

Disclaimer – I don't own Ruroken. Don't sue.

* * *

**Chapter 6**

* * *

Kenshin was not a fool.

Having grown up on the streets, he had no formal education to speak of, but his shishou – an old-fashioned, stiff-necked traditionalist who believed calligraphy and haiku every bit as important as footwork, balance and sake – had made sure he had more to recommend him than his skills with a blade. According to Hiko, the older man had struggled long and hard to pound some basic culture and manners into him, with little success –

According to Katsura-san, Kenshin was curiously old-fashioned, naïve in some ways, bitterly cynical in others, and often out of touch with the realities of the twentieth century. But he was in no way a fool, and nor, after fifteen years at Katsura-san's side, was he ignorant of political infighting and the corruption of power and money.

Something was wrong.

"Sano," he said quietly, "what's going on?" When the young, brash street fighter – the most disastrously straightforward man he'd ever known – turned away and could not meet his eyes, he knew that they were keeping something from him.

"Don't worry, Kenshin. There's nothing you can do."

Kenshin's eyes narrowed, his empty hands tightening before he breathed out, slowly dispelling his anger and frustration. It was true enough: with his shoulder still immobilized, his right hand was useless, his normal grace and balance destroyed. But something in Kenshin rebelled; surely there was more to him than a strong sword arm.

He raised himself up off his back, biting his lip as he jolted his shoulder. Sano was standing by the shoji, hovering indecisively, torn between helping him rise and pushing him back down to spare him further injury. Kenshin saw the conflict in him, and glared fiercely when he would have rushed forward to help – drawing on reserves of sheer, stubborn determination, he pushed himself further, up onto his knees and then to his feet.

"Sanosuke," he said again, his voice low, quiet and iron-hard, "what aren't you telling me? Don't tell me that nothing's wrong – I can see it in your eyes."

"Kenshin…" Sano's voice trailed off, almost begging him not to ask further questions. But, relentless, Kenshin imposed his will on the younger man –

"Okubo challenged Shishio," Sano finally answered. "He had fifty men with him – but the Tenken slaughtered them all. Shishio took Okubo's head, then went back to Tokyo Headquarters and took power –"

"Katsura-san?" Kenshin's voice cracked like a whip. He drew in a sharp breath, his shoulder twinging in protest.

"Alive. They took him into 'protective custody'," he emphasized the words ironically, "and took over the Tokyo Ishin Shishi. That was two days ago – they've made serious challenges to Kyoto, now, but Wakamura is holding them off."

"Protective custody?" Kenshin repeated the words thoughtfully. "A hostage, you mean. Shishio must have known I was injured, else he would not have moved so quickly…"

"You think he took Katsura to hold as a hostage against you?"

Kenshin shrugged, regretting it immediately. "A hostage, a puppet, a trophy – what matters is that he's alive. And if he's alive, I can rescue him –"

"Are you so sure of that, baka deshi?" A deep, authoritative voice – irritated, Kenshin could hear the exasperation in it – spoke from behind Sano. Hiko Seijuuro stood, arms crossed belligerently across his muscled chest, and glared at him –

"_Shishou?_"

* * *

Hiko scowled down at his dumbfounded apprentice.

The fool had _no right _to look so astonished. In the four days since Sagara had hammered on the dojo door and dragged him back into Kenshin's chaotic, disorganized life, he'd been subjected to a great deal of trouble and inconvenience. To Hiko, who prized his reclusive isolation, it was almost too much trouble for a stubborn hothead who'd stormed out on his shishou, shouting that he was going to _do _something about the troubles on the streets.

Look where his misguided zeal and determination had won. Fifteen years on, and nothing had changed – gangs still fought and killed in the streets, and innocent people still died through no fault of their own. Only this time, the Ishin Shishi were the killers, not the righteous defenders.

"You can't even hold a sword," he said curtly, echoes of his anger and fear coming through. "How are you going to fight this Tenken?"

Something died, then, in those wide, shocked eyes. An illusion, perhaps, or a last remnant of childish faith –

"Forgive me, Shishou," Kenshin murmured, bowing – stubborn fool, to stretch the wound so – in respectful acceptance of the rebuke. Once he would have protested heatedly, his eyes bright and indignant.

"Don't tell me you believe in your own legend?" Hiko continued, relentless. "Shishio believes it. He used it for his own purpose – you cast a shadow, _Battousai. _But for your example, your precedent, this new assassin would not exist."

"Oi," Sagara interrupted, sputtering. "Hold on. You can't just–"

"Sano," Kenshin said, his voice low and curt. "Please." The young gangster grunted, but departed obediently, sending Hiko one last, warning glare.

When he was gone, Hiko's stubborn, reckless, damaged, sad-eyed apprentice lowered himself painfully to his knees and bent, first obeisance, holding it despite the agony it must be sending through his shoulder. "Shishou, this one humbly begs your assistance…"

He recoiled, taking a shocked step back. Kenshin's mutilated left hand shot out, grasping the fabric of his old, stained hakama –

"Shishou, _please!_ He is stronger, faster, and more than ten years younger: you _must _help me."

Still, the fool did not understand. "No, Battousai. As you are, you can never defeat him because he _is _you. Not a samurai, not a swordsman: nothing but a killer –" almost violently, he shook off Kenshin's desperate grip. "You have neither the strength nor the compassion to overcome him, and I will not put my time and hope into you once more only to see you waste your skills in service to yakuza scum!"

Kenshin lifted his eyes, then, to meet his. Then, quite deliberately, he lowered them and bowed again. He showed no signs of pain or discomfort, or of humility either, despite the formal acceptance of his master's last word on the topic.

Stubborn fool.

Baka deshi.

* * *

Sano saw the big, arrogant swordsman stride out of the house, his mouth set and his eyes dark and angry. Sano had heard the raised voices, felt the taut, angry tension emanating from Kenshin's room – for a moment, he thought of turning away and pretending he hadn't noticed, but then his friendship for Kenshin and his innate honesty forced him to return. When he looked in on his friend, Kenshin was lying flat on his back, his face white and strained, his eyes bruised and hollow. There were red patches of blood blooming through the white bandages on his chest, and his breathing was harsh and laboured.

"Still upset with you, is he?" Sano asked mildly.

There was no response.

"So what _are_ you going to do, Kenshin? He's right in one thing – you can't hold a sword. Shishio will kill Katsura before you're even fully recovered, or else he'll send his assassins after you – he can't afford to give you time to heal. We've had to move twice already, because the police and Shishio's goons were all over Kyoto, searching for you."

Kenshin's mouth worked, whispering, "_Police?" _in a painfully hoarse voice, before laughing. "Forgot about…Iizuka."

Sano scowled. It had been Iizuka who had dragged them all into this mess, with his mad, inexplicable decision to turn. In killing him, Kenshin had dropped his guard long enough to catch a bullet, thinking he was invincible –

"Sano," Kenshin whispered again, "do you trust me?"

"Of course I do."

"How far…" he stopped, drew in a deep breath. "How far would you trust Saito?"

* * *

In the two days since Okubo's death, the new leader of the Ishin Shishi made his presence known. Six high-profile assassinations and any number of beatings, mysterious accidents and sudden fires spread a pall of fear over the streets of Tokyo – fear that Saito had not seen since the worst days of the gang wars fifteen years ago. His investigations led nowhere: all the usual conduits of information had been brutally silenced, and everyone who saw him coming fled, their eyes wide with more than the usual fear of arrest.

"There is one thing at least," he said to Shinomori at the station, flicking open his lighter and lighting his cigarette, drawing in a deep, relaxing lungful of poisonous nicotine smoke. "Katsura is still alive. He's been seen at his usual haunts, shadowed by a new retinue – including a young, smiling boy with a sword."

"A stalking horse?"

Saito grunted. "Perhaps." He hesitated. "And perhaps he is bait."

Shinomori's eyes were very, very blue. Not for the first time, Saito wondered about the detective's origins – his true origins, not the carefully bland fiction in his official files.

"You think Battousai is the key to this?"

"I think," he said, smoke trickling from his nostrils, "that ever since his first assassination, so many years ago, he became a symbol, a talisman, a declaration of Katsura's power – one that must be completely and publicly eliminated, if this new leader is ever to rest peacefully. I think that a man who stood by Katsura's side for fifteen years will not allow a usurper to destroy everything he has worked so hard to achieve –"

"He is injured. You said it so yourself."

Saito shook his head. "Injury will not stop him. It may take him longer, but in the end, he will return to restore his master."

Shinomori's hard, impassive face was unreadable. "You sound as if you admire him."

"Admire him? No. He is a ruthless, merciless assassin. But he has honour, of a sort – unlike the madman who engineered his downfall."

His cigarette flared.

"The girl – Kamiya – saw him. He walked straight past her without even seeing her. An incredible oversight for a ki-sensitive assassin."

He saw Shinomori's eyes narrow – but not with skepticism at the news that Battousai was ki-sensitive. They stared at each other for a long, long while, daring the other to speak first. "Her ki is nothing extraordinary," Shinomori said neutrally. "She is strong, yes, and bright – but she has not the skill to blank herself. If anything, it is the opposite."

Saito smiled, a hard, thin, wolfish smile. "It was the first sign of weakness I've seen in Battousai for fifteen years."

"You think to use the girl to trap him?" It was hard to tell whether the detective approved or not.

"She can identify him. She is already tracing him through the computer files, and searching for swordsmen and dojos in Kyoto–" with a sudden, abrupt movement, he tossed his cigarette to the ground. "He could have killed her, but did not. It was as if he _dared _her to fire, to test her resolve."

* * *

Kenshin lay back and closed his eyes as Sano ranted and raved, pacing back and forth gesticulating wildly as he listed, with exhaustive detail, every single reason why Kenshin was mad to even think of going to Saito. In a way, he was right – it _was _madness; Kenshin was one of the most wanted criminals in Japan, the weight of his years of assassination enough to see him locked away for decades. But Shishou was also right – he could even hold a sword, and had no hope of besting Soujiro as he was now.

But he _was _more than just a sword in Katsura-san's hand.

He had a mind and a will of his own. And he would need it – now that Katsura was in Shishio's hands, it was time to think, not charge in prepared to slaughter everything in his path. A false step here could have disastrous consequences.

How much of Iizuka's turning and his own presence in Kyoto at such a vital time was Shishio's doing? Had the usurping bastard planned everything –

No. No, he couldn't have planned that Kenshin would overlook the girl. He couldn't have planned Kenshin's reaction to her, to the mixed fear and determination in her blue, blue eyes, and to his reckless, mad need to know just how far she would go, whether she would actually shoot him or not.

Shishio hadn't planned on his being injured and dropping out of sight.

Had there been an assassin waiting at the hotel where he should have stayed the night?

"…Half the blasted police in Kyoto and Tokyo are crooked, Kenshin. You of all people should know this – the old man subverted most of 'em himself, using you as a threat. How do you know they won't hand you over to Shishio as soon as you approach them? It's too dangerous. Lay low for a while, wait until it all blows over."

Kenshin opened his eyes and smiled weakly at the honest, open concern in Sano's eyes. "Do you think that Saito is crooked?" he asked, his voice still slightly hoarse.

Sano hesitated. Kenshin smiled – he knew what the gangster was thinking. Saito, with his mad yellow eyes and his ironclad honour code, was an echo of the fanatical Shinsengumi, who had actually hunted down and executed the traitors in their own ranks.

"No," Sano admitted. "No, I don't think he's on the take. Not after what happened to his family. But, Kenshin, he's only one man –"

"And the girl."

Kenshin hadn't meant to say that aloud.

"The girl?" Sano looked at him sharply. "The girl with Saito? You saw her?"

"She shot me."

"_She _shot you? Oh, man, you're not serious – you let her get off a shot? You let her _see _you?" He stopped, suddenly, as if something had just occurred to him. "You know, Katsura asked about her, once…"

Katsura had asked about her? Why would he possibly…

"Kenshin, you're not seriously thinking of going to Saito, are you?" Sano finally asked, coming back to sit by his futon, collapsing in a lanky pile of limbs and concern.

Suddenly, Kenshin smiled. "Saito? Not Saito, no…"

* * *

A/N – Last week, my USB memory stick/device/thing died, taking all my finished and unfinished work (including my half-written chapters) with it. I was not impressed, especially not when I had to rewrite this from memory.

Having said that, please tell me what you think of my efforts. Feedback is always greatly appreciated.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N – Here it is, everyone, what you've all been waiting for since their explosive first meeting: Kaoru and Ken meet again. Sano plays matchmaker, or at least facilitates the meeting.

The official English-language Kendo magazine is "Kendo World". There are probably others in Japanese, but as I have no personal knowledge and my computer translates kanji and hiragana into strange symbols, I'm twisting "Kendo World" to my own purposes.

Disclaimer – I don't own Ruroken. More's the pity.

* * *

**Chapter 7**

* * *

While Saito and Shinomori had their he-man alpha male challenge, thinly disguised as a discussion about the case, Kaoru received a call from Kyoto. It was Masamune, the police artist who had worked with her in creating a picture of the hitokiri's face. They were running the resulting picture through the official police and government database, searching for a match – although Saito had been skeptical of the chances of it producing any real results.

Any assassin who'd remained at large and anonymous for fifteen years, he'd said, was not likely to have his face in any official files. Still, Kaoru thought it was worth a try; perhaps he had a driver's license, or a passport – who knew? It was always the small things that tripped up even the most brilliant criminals.

"Kamiya-san," Masamune said over the phone, his voice excited. "I've found something."

* * *

It was late when she arrived in Kyoto. The police station was almost deserted for the night, the corridors long and lonely, her footfalls loud in the eerie silence. She could not help but remember the night of Iizuka's death, the bustling activity of radios and purposeful orders, and the terrible contrast of the hitokiri's silence. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of ragged yellow police tape, left over from the investigation of the assassination – the carnage created by one trained man with a sword and a purpose.

Disturbed, she picked up her pace, hurrying towards Masamune's artistic lab. He was waiting for her at the door, almost bouncing up and down with excitement. "Remember when you asked me to check local dojos and training halls, to see where our hitokiri learned to use his sword?"

"Did you find a dojo, Masamune-san?"

"Even better." The shaggy, uncool artist had been delighted at the chance to handle some investigative work. Bringing a notorious assassin's face to life had been the culmination of long-held desires, but to have a hand in his capture – well, that was the chance of a lifetime. "I found a match." He grinned proudly and handed her their picture of Battousai, and an old, old copy of _Kendo World, _opened to an article.

It was dated nearly sixteen years ago, the headline in bold kanji proclaiming the Kyoto Metropolitan Kendo Championships. There were thumbnail headshots of all the champions, and just above the caption 'Young Master' was a grainy, black and white picture of a young boy, perhaps 13 years old.

The picture they had created of hitokiri Battousai was of a handsome, deceptively young man, pale-skinned, unmistakably Japanese but with strange, ancient golden-brown eyes. His hair was long and black, and there was an old, faded knife scar on his left cheek. The boy in the newspaper was much younger, his face open and smiling, but it was unmistakably the hitokiri, as he had once been.

"Himura Kenshin," she read slowly from the article. "Of the Hiten Mitsurugi Ryu, trained by Master Hiko Seijuuro. –Did you get an address for this…'Hiten Mitsurugi' dojo?"

"No." Masamune shook his head. "There's no official dojo. I looked into it – old Hiko-san used to be a master swordsman, but he descended into the bottle and walked away from the circuit. No one in the kendo community had heard of him for years, until these Championships, where his student blew them all away – and then afterwards…"

"And then afterwards his student became hitokiri Battousai," Kaoru finished. "The timing is right – but how young he must have been!"

"That's the best age for the yakuza," Masamune said soberly, reminding Kaoru that he was, underneath all the eagerness, a cop. "Young kids like that are eager to believe, but not smart enough to know what they're getting into."

* * *

Himura Kenshin wasn't sure that he knew what he was getting into this time, either. At the moment, he was seated in a stolen car outside the police station – a sure sign of madness – because Sano had refused to let him come any closer.

"It's too dangerous," he'd snapped, "and besides, you shouldn't even be out of bed."

Kenshin had seriously contemplated disobedience, but resigned himself to the inevitable when he saw the militant light in Sano's eyes. The rough, foul-tongued gangster had turned into an over-protective mother hen, and Kenshin knew that he was only looking for an excuse to restrain him forcefully to his sickbed.

There were times when Kenshin cursed the mutual cares and obligations of friendship. Only Sano would think he had the right to treat the great hitokiri so casually, bullying him into resting or eating – no one else would dare. But because he knew that no one else would dare, Kenshin put up with it; there were times when he'd been almost pathetically grateful for Sano's rough aid.

* * *

Sano had a great many misgivings about this plan, and he'd expressed them to Kenshin, many times over. However, the great hitokiri – Sano's own words, not Kenshin's – had remained adamant, threatening to approach the girl himself if Sano would not go with him. That was the only reason why Sagara Sanosuke, small-time crook, was breaking _into _the police station; it was madness, but it was what Kenshin wanted, and Kenshin was his friend. The stubborn fool wasn't used to anyone looking after him, rather than the other way around. At least Katsu had reassured him Saito was still in Tokyo.

There was a light on in an office on the third floor, and Sano snuck silently from the stairwell down towards the open door, trying to blend into the shadows as Kenshin did. He could hear, in the silence, keyboards clacking and the hum of two excited voices –

"…distribute this picture to every local station in Kyoto; he can't have gotten far…"

"…canvass the streets; must be someone who remembers him…"

"…find this Hiko Seijuuro. Impossible to hide such a…"

Sano was suddenly glad that he'd come when he did, because it sounded like the net was closing in around them. This Kamiya girl was smart, and she was determined to find Kenshin; Sano hoped it wasn't because Kenshin had frightened the life out of her at their first meeting.

Kenshin took some people that way. His first impressions tended to be final...

* * *

Masamune left her alone in the office, and Kaoru allowed herself to slump down, putting her head in her hands and trying to clear her mind. She hadn't slept since the notice of Okubo's death had arrived, had been on her feet and chasing after the elusive Battousai for nearly a full day. She thought she'd put in a further hour or two here, and then find some kind of horizontal surface to collapse onto and catch a few hours sleep.

Then she heard the footstep, and every nerve in her body jerked her awake.

Her mind flashed back to the hitokiri's fluid grace, to his perfect, disciplined control. Her heart thundering desperately, she looked around frantically for a weapon, finding only a long wooden pole with a hook on the end, a relic of the long-gone days of high, glass louvred windows. Kaoru had done a little work with quarterstaffs and naginata; she grabbed the pole, slid her hands along it until she found the balance, and then stood flat against the wall near the open door, her palms sweating, her whole body trembling.

* * *

Sano waited until the nerdy cop left, leaving the woman alone in the office. Slowly, he crept up to the doorway, listening; it had suddenly become very, very quiet. She knew he was outside. Well, that made things a little more difficult – but how much trouble could one woman cause _him?_

Unfortunately, Sano had no notion that the woman he had been sent to fetch had any experience in self-defense, or that she was fully trained in her father's sword style of Kamiya Kasshin Ryu. If he had known, he might have handled the abduction better.

* * *

The soft footsteps drew closer, and she could hear hoarse breathing and the soft, sibilant sound of rustling clothes. Briefly, it crossed her mind that the hitokiri was a lot louder now, than he had been last time – but perhaps he was less cautious now, in a deserted building, facing only a woman?

She would make him pay for that overconfidence.

It was a waiting game, now, and Kaoru was determined to come out the victor. She breathed in deeply through her mouth, holding the breath for three long heartbeats, and exhaled deeply, forcing her heart to slow, forcing her mind to calm. She clenched her hands on her makeshift weapon, shifting her muscles, and waited for the attacker to come within range.

* * *

He charged in through the door, his fists clenched and deliberately scowling, trying to look as fierce as possible. He only just managed to avoid a cracked head, ducking out of the way of the flying window opener. Cursing, he tried to grab it and jerk it out of her hands – she moved it, whirling, and cracked him on the shins, the wrist, and the side of the head in short order.

He growled, low, under his breath. She faced him, the ridiculous pole braced in perfect position, her expression intent and determined. And then, her eyes opened very wide –

"Sagara!" she said in amazement. Then: "You're not Battousai!"

"Well, of course I'm not –" he sputtered, but she recovered before he did, swinging her pole fiercely and whacking him solidly in the solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him.

"Oof!"

Then, the whirling pole flashed back and around, hooking his feet out from under him. He fell to his knees, and this time he knew he was in trouble – she lifted her arms high above her head, like an executioner, and brought the pole down with all her strength on the back of his head.

He went out like a light.

* * *

Kenshin swore as he pulled himself painfully up the steps to the station's side door. It had taken him five minutes to get the car door open, until he finally realised that Sano had child-locked the car against unauthorized exits. Cursing all stubborn, overprotective fools, he'd disengaged the locks, slammed the door pettishly behind him and limped across the road to the station. He'd seen fighting in the bright windows above him, and he wasn't quite sure whether he went to rescue Sano or the girl – but he knew that he had to see for himself.

Sano had gone in through the security door, and Kenshin saw no reason not to follow him. He still remembered the layout of the building from Iizuka's assassination, and so slipped silently – if very slowly – towards the main foyer on the ground floor.

The struggle would be over by now, whichever way it had gone, and whoever won would sooner or later come down to the ground floor. He was certainly in no shape to climb the stairs himself, and he refused to take the elevator. Once, he'd almost died in a lift: there was only one way out, and security guards were always, always on the other side of the door. There had been nine of them, on that night. It was not a good memory.

While he lurked in the shadows, reliving blood-soaked memories, the elevator chime sounded. He looked up at the row of lights, saw that it was coming down from the third floor. As he watched, breathing deeply and gathering his strength, the numbers changed: three to two, two to one, and one to G.

There was another chime, and the doors opened.

* * *

Kaoru knew she'd made a mistake as soon as the doors opened.

The attacker wasn't alone.

Why hadn't she thought of that? In the rush of furious adrenaline as she brought a grown man down with a wooden pole, in the sense of shock as she realized that he wasn't Battousai, and in the almost hysterical aftermath, when she kicked him vindictively in the ribs before tying him up and handcuffing him, she hadn't stopped to think that there might be two.

She stepped out of the elevator, leaving Sagara tied up and still in the elevator, gripping her stick with much more assurance. It was dark, after the brightly lit lift, and her eyes were night-blinded –

"Who's there?" she called out, challenging whomever it was to come forward. "Come out so I can see you. What do you want?"

There was no answer. She took a further step into the dark, searching desperately –

And then she saw him.

Leaning against the wall, a creature of shadow and darkness, was the hitokiri. His eyes, that curious amber-brown, caught the light and glowed hellishly; she caught her breath on an instinctive thrill of fear. He pushed off the wall, striding towards her, but there was something terribly wrong. The smooth, lethal grace she remembered had been destroyed; now he moved in halting, forced steps, his right arm hanging awkward and immobile beside him.

"What happened to you?" she breathed, shocked.

He stopped – deliberately, she thought – in a pool of moonlight and looked at her with a curious expression on his face. "You shot me."

* * *

A/N – Mwahaha, that seemed a good place to end the chapter. Please tell me what you think. Feedback is always warmly appreciated.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N – Ah, that was an evil cliffhanger. Now here we have the important bit – the rest of their conversation. And some other stuff as well, not as interesting but essential for plot structure and other such tedious necessities.

Disclaimer – I don't own Ruroken. Don't sue.

* * *

**Chapter 8**

_

* * *

_

_Leaning against the wall, a creature of shadow and darkness, was the hitokiri. His eyes, that curious amber-brown, caught the light and glowed hellishly; she caught her breath on an instinctive thrill of fear. He pushed off the wall, striding towards her, but there was something terribly wrong. The smooth, lethal grace she remembered had been destroyed; now he moved in halting, forced steps, his right arm hanging awkward and immobile beside him. _

"_What happened to you?" she breathed, shocked. _

_He stopped – deliberately, she thought – in a pool of moonlight and looked at her with a curious expression on his face. "You shot me."_

_And then his breath hitched, he grabbed at his shoulder, doubling over with a grunt of pure, agonized pain – _

_And crumpled slowly, gracefully, to the floor._

* * *

Loud, thumping music and flashing, blinding lights: sitting in the main office of his most popular nightclub, Katsura narrowed his eyes against the pounding in his temples and longed fiercely for silence, for Ikumatsu's soothing presence and the peace of his own rooms.

But it was not to be.

"Ne, Katsura-san," the smiling boy-killer whispered in his ear, "There is someone here to see you. His name is Chou."

Chou Sawagejou, the sword collector – one of Shishio's Ten Swords, and the crudest, most abrasive man Katsura had ever had the misfortune to meet. Still, he inclined his head, for all the world as if he had any choice in the matter. "Send him in," he murmured, leaning back further in his chair. As puppet ruler of the Ishin Shishi, he still had the appearance of authority, if nothing else.

Shishio's pet killer nodded to a guard standing by the door, who turned and ushered in a tall, wild-haired punk, all restless energy and no discipline, two flashy, store-bought swords riding on his back. "Yo, Katsura-san," Chou said, smiling insolently as he dropped into a chair before the desk without permission, tossing a gym bag to the floor with a thump. "Thanks for seeing me."

Once, Katsura would have deflated this young fool with a raised brow and a pointed look.

"Chou," he said neutrally. Behind him, Seta shifted a little, reminding him who truly held the reins in this office. "Why did you wish to see me?" he added.

"Ah, well," Chou grinned toothily, "the thing is, Shishio-sama's been really worried for your safety, lately, what with the recent upheavals and all. So he set me to helping young Soujiro with your security, like."

Katsura raised a brow and murmured appropriately polite and gratified niceties.

"Now I didn't think anyone would be dumb enough to try and kill you under our protection, Katsura-san, but would you believe it," he bent down to the gym bag, zipped it open, and took something out, "I found this stupid fuck trying to sneak into the compound and murder you in your sleep."

He stood up, took a step forward, and placed a severed head on the desk.

Katsura drew in his breath, but kept his face blank. "Dear me," he murmured.

"Yeah," Chou drawled. "I don't know what the world's coming to, when your own men turn against you. Am I right, Katsura-san? He was one of your lesser hitokiri, wasn't he? Before, uh," he paused delicately, "the events of a few days ago…"

Before he had publicly refused to countenance Shishio's power and had disappeared into the city.

Warming to his role, Chou shook his head solemnly. "Terrible shame, treachery from a man like that. Not content with publicly humiliating and repudiating you, he sneaks through the window at night and tries to kill you. Well, rest assured, we've done everything that's humanly possible to make sure it don't happen again."

Meeting his eyes squarely, Katsura breathed deeply and steadily, concentrating on showing none of the thwarted, frustrated anger that raged through him. _Very well, Shishio,_ he thought, _you've made your point. _

"Thank you, Chou," he said mildly, "it's good to know how closely you're looking after me."

The insolent bastard even managed a shy smile and a modest duck of the head. "You're very welcome, sir. Very welcome indeed…"

* * *

"Well?" Shishio asked, afterwards.

Soujiro, looking over the security tapes of the conversation once again, shook his head. "He didn't even blink, Shishio-san. He's a master."

"Houji?"

Shishio's brilliant secretary bowed, wringing his hands as he spoke. "As the Tenken said, Shishio-sama, he controlled his reaction very well. But he was not at all pleased with Chou's news. He was behind the attempt, there's no doubt."

Shishio grunted. The old man was wily and cunning, but he was running out of options. Katsura would soon learn that none of his loyal men could get anywhere near him when Soujiro stood in the way –

"That reminds me. How goes the search for Battousai? Surely _someone_ must know _something_. There can't be that many redheads with fucking bullets in their goddamned shoulders in Kyoto. Even the police might have some leads."

"As- as to that," Houji hastened to inform him, "we have a number of people pursuing every available –"

"Every available avenue," he cut in. "Enough, Houji."

There was a slight pause, broken by Soujiro's delicate cough. "The problem, Shishio-san, is that no one except Katsura knows anything about his past."

"Well, then, ask Katsura!"

Houji's eyes widened. "You mean…"

"Make him talk," he snapped. "Finding Battousai is our top priority now. We can stop wasting our time with useless lies."

Swallowing nervously, Houji bowed repeatedly, stammering out agreements and broken half-sentences until Shishio lost patience and threw him out of the office.

When they were alone, he looked at Soujiro and asked the question that had been growing in his mind for days now, as the search for Battousai stretched out longer and longer. "Can you kill him?"

Souji's eyes were flat, and empty, and filled with certainty in his own skill. "Yes," he said frankly. "Yes, I can."

* * *

Kaoru swore.

Bending down to examine the slumped, inert body at her feet, she felt her fingers shaking as she felt for his pulse. She had to breathe in deeply, concentrating on calming herself down, before she could hold her hand steady –

It was ridiculous. Now, after the danger was over, she fell apart.

The most feared and hated assassin in Japan had long, thick hair that she had to brush out of the way, soft and warm with his stored body heat in the half-darkness. His skin was flushed with the beginnings – or perhaps the remnants – of fever, and his pulse, when she rolled him over and pressed her hand to his lolling neck, was swift and only a little irregular. She could feel the awkward bulk of a bandage over his shoulder –

_His arm should be in a sling! What does he think he's doing, running around breaking into police stations?_

And jumped guiltily, flinching as her phone erupted with a loud, jangling, jarring ring. She'd been meaning to change the jaunty, cheerful pop tune for something more appropriate to Saito's disapproving dourness, but had not yet managed the time – it seemed even more inappropriate here, in the darkness with two unconscious yakuza.

Hastily, she flipped it open, cursing as she saw Saito's name on the Caller ID.

"Have you made any progress on identifying Battousai, Kamiya?" Saito growled. In the background, she could hear the hustle and bustle of traffic, voices, and deafening music, and wondered where her superior was at this time of night.

Then she registered his question.

"Er, y-yes, sir," she stammered, guiltily aware of the hitokiri almost in her lap. "Masamune and I found an old picture in a kendo magazine. A young boy, named Himura Kenshin."

Saito drew in his breath. "A kendo magazine?" he asked, his voice very neutral.

"Yes. _Kendo World, _Summer 1989. Trained by Hiko Seijuuro, of the Hiten Mitsurugi Ryu."

Was that a growl?

"Sir?" And then she froze. Alerted by her voice, by the instinct that had seen him survive fifteen years of killing and intrigue, the man who was once a young, smiling boy in a kendo magazine stirred restlessly, groaning painfully –

Frantically, she tried to soothe him, smoothing his hair and patting him awkwardly. She was very aware, as she did so, that though he was neither tall nor broad-shouldered, there was smooth, hard muscle underneath her fingers, compact strength in his slow, awkward movements.

"Kamiya! Are you listening to me?" Saito snapped. "If we don't find him, then we can kiss any chance of peace in Tokyo and Kyoto goodbye. The longer he remains unchallenged, the tighter Shishio's grip on the underworld grows –"

"Then why don't the police do something, sir?" she retorted sharply, angry now that she should be so drawn into this mess.

"You know damned well our hands are tied. If I had my way, I'd see every single one of the bastards dead, Shishio's men and Katsura's both. But we can't move unless we have warrants, and warrants need proof – _that's _the difference between us and them, Kamiya. That's why we're the good guys."

"So you'd rather stand back and let Battousai do all your dirty work for you."

"Exactly," he said, with dark, sardonic mockery. "You're learning, Kamiya. Call me if any further information comes up."

And with that, he hung up. Furious, she snapped the phone shut and shoved it back into her pocket, swearing under her breath.

"He's…right," a hoarse, pained voice whispered, as Battousai gathered himself, groaned, and sat up, slumping against the wall. "Shishio has enough police to hamstring the rest."

She glared at him balefully. "Listening in, were you? How much did you hear?"

"Enough." He shifted, bringing that long, thick braid forward over his shoulder. "I should have remembered about that photo."

"So that was you? Your name really is Himura Kenshin?"

"Yes. And you've probably already met Sano."

The rich amusement in his voice reminded her, with a jolt, of the gangster she had knocked out, tied up, and left lying in the lift. She jumped up. "Oh, no!" In her distracted fascination with the crumpled, unconscious hitokiri, and in her guilty deception during Saito's call, she'd forgotten all about Sagara –

But the lift was gone.

"Where did he go?" she asked, bewildered.

"The lift was summoned back to the third floor," Himura said matter-of-factly. "I imagine whoever summoned it received a nasty surprise."

"Masamune! He only stepped out to get coffee –" and then something occurred to her. "You heard the lift go? I thought you were unconscious!"

In the monochromatic moonlight, all colour was leached away, leaving only shadows and stark impressions. She could _feel_ his eyes watching, feel her instincts prickle in response to the cold, predatory amber-brown –

"It is my business to notice such things," he finally answered. "It did not return, so I assume your colleague – Masamune? – is currently rushing down the stairs, preparing to do battle on your behalf. In fact," he cocked his head, concentrated a little, "yes. Here he comes, now…"

Rushing, clattering footsteps on the stairwell, and a shouted, "Kamiya-san! Kamiya-san, are you all right? Answer me, Kamiya-san!"

"Masamune-san!" she called, warning him, "Don't –"

But it was too late. Masamune hurtled down the stairs, throwing himself into the corridor with his gun out, eyes frantically searching the foyer. Behind him, in the darkness – how did he move so _quickly? – _Battousai emerged, swung –

"No!" Kaoru shouted.

There was a sick _thunk, _and Masamune fell.

"You monster!" Kaoru howled, throwing herself over Masamune's body at the hitokiri, wanting to kill him as he'd killed her friend – but he stepped aside, tripped her, and she stumbled to her hands and knees on the carpeted floor, breath heaving and tears coming in earnest now. She gasped, pushed herself slowly back to her feet, and glared bitterly at him, her hands clenched. "I should have killed you when I had the chance!"

"Why didn't you?" he asked casually. "That's two chances you've had, now."

"You _killed _him!" she breathed, horrified. "You…_killed _him."

"With a window opener?" Unlike before, when they had first spoken, his voice was light, now, ironic. It distanced him, she realized dimly, from the man who had fainted at her feet, whom she had petted and stroked in the dark. "Hardly. He'll wake in the morning with a splitting headache –"

She froze, gaping at him.

"Which is more than many others can say." Deliberately, he walked over to the bank of lifts and pressed the little vertical diamond, calling the lift back. "I wonder what Sano thinks of all this."

* * *

His shoulder ached and throbbed, and he could feel cold sweat breaking out all over. He felt light-headed, and knew that soon he would have to rest, before he fainted again, and this time at less merciful feet than the girl's. Although, he had the feeling she would not hold back a third time, not after that display he'd put on with the window opener.

It had been a long, long time since a woman had touched him so gently.

Settling back into the passenger seat of Sano's stolen car, he closed his eyes and tried to ride out the pain, ignoring the psychedelic colours exploding behind his eyelids, and ignoring too Sano's loud indignation at the policewoman's treatment of him. For her part, Kamiya preserved an icy silence, her outrage at her kidnapping expressed through freezing glares and pointed disinterest. It was a torturous ride home.

Happily, some time before they reached their destination, he passed out.

* * *

Sano picked a feverish, half-conscious Kenshin up out of the car, hoisted him in his arms (grunting a little at the muscle weight: he was heavier than he looked) and carried him to the door of their dingy little bed-sit, hired under false names and papers. He glared at the Kamiya woman, who had the keys –

_K'so, _if she didn't want to come with them, then why hadn't she used her phone, or called out for help, or tried to run, instead of just glaring at them and acting hard-done by? If he'd known she'd be such trouble, he'd never have gone along with Kenshin's plan. He only hoped that his gambling buddies never heard about this little episode.

"Well?" he hissed under his breath. "What are you waiting for? Open the bloody door."

She sniffed. With a great show of compliance, she stuffed the key in the lock and turned, shooting him a look of pure dislike as she shoved the door open. He returned it, in full measure, and made sure to enter before she did.

He thought he felt Kenshin laugh as he laid him down on the couch.

"Well then," the Kamiya woman snapped, slamming the door behind her and stalking forward so that she stood in the centre of the room, her arms crossed belligerently. "What's all this about?"

* * *

A/N – No, this is not another cliffhanger. This is a natural place to end the chapter, so that next chapter can be devoted to much explanations and persuasion. Else this one will be pushing four or five thousand words.

Please tell me what you think. Feedback is always greatly appreciated.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N – My apologies for the delay in getting this chapter out. Real life intervened. However, it does contain the rest of the conversation and some K+K interaction, as promised.

Disclaimer – I don't own Ruroken. Watsuki-sensei and various other corporate giants got in there first.

**

* * *

**

**Chapter 9**

* * *

"Tell me about Himura," Shishio demanded, his eyes fixed on Katsura. "Why did you send him away?"

He had expected Iizuka to divert at least some of Katsura's hitokiri, but not that the old man would send Battousai, of all people. It had been a job for a novice eager to prove himself, not the master assassin himself.

Those dark, unreadable eyes lifted to his, and Shishio felt the old mixture of resentment and admiration he'd always felt for the former leader. He'd been so proud when Katsura chose to elevate him to the Council, so foolishly sure that he would soon become the old man's right hand – but no. Katsura clung to Okubo, too cautious and past his prime, and cold-eyed Himura, useless for anything but force, but he'd only called on Shishio's energy and initiative when it suited him, when he thought he could control him.

So why had he deliberately stripped himself of his most powerful protection?

"You knew Iizuka's treachery would play into my hands," he realized. "And yet you still sent him away."

"You wanted so badly to turn my attention away from Tokyo," Katsura said. "I decided to oblige you."

Shishio looked at Soujiro over Katsura's shoulder and nodded. There was a dull thud and an agonized grunt of pain. He walked over to kneel by the fallen leader, whispering in his ear, "Did you think to keep him in reserve? It won't work, old man. My men will find him; the streets cannot hide him, not from me."

"He will come back," Katsura ground out.

The absolute confidence in those flat, ruthless black eyes was infuriating. "Are you so sure? What loyalty does a bastard street rat owe the man who broke him to his will? Feral gutter-born killers know only one allegiance, and that is to the strongest. Will he still come for you now, when you are old, weak and powerless?"

"You fool," Katsura spoke very, very softly. "You understand nothing."

His eyes narrowed in sudden, ferocious anger, Shishio clenched his fist and contemplated smashing that smug, infuriatingly calm face into a bloody pulp. He could feel Soujiro's blank, indifferent gaze, feel the way his most dangerous supporter watched him – and knew that he could not afford to give into anger.

"No, old man," he said finally. "I know exactly how the world works. How else do you think I took the organization away from you?"

* * *

"Masamune-san," someone said, shaking his shoulder urgently. "Masamune-san, are you alright? What happened here?"

Masamune groaned, vaguely aware of his aching head. He opened his eyes to see a young policeman leaning over him with a concerned expression. He had a vague impression that something was very wrong, that he'd forgotten something very important.

And then he remembered. "The hitokiri!" he shouted, sitting up abruptly. "Kamiya-san!"

* * *

"Tell me where I can find him," Shishio said, flicking that damned lighter open and shut, reminding Katsura of his penchant for fire and burning his enemies alive. "Help me make things easier for everybody concerned."

Katsura eyed him through bruised, swollen eyelids and said nothing. He had so very, very few things to cling to anymore; the memory of Himura's loyalty was one of the last shreds of hope he had left.

"If I have to find him myself," that deep, dark taunting voice continued, "I will cut off every single one of his fingers to make damned sure he can never wield a sword again. And that will only be the beginning." Suddenly, he reached out and grabbed Katsura by the neck, lifting him with maddened strength and slamming him against the concrete wall. "_Where has he gone!"_

His lungs burning and straining for breath, Katsura struggled weakly, scrabbling at that iron-hard fist, no match for the younger, stronger man –

Until that terrible grip loosened, and dropped him to the ground, heaving and gasping for breath.

"Are you willing to cooperate now?"

* * *

He watched her in the morning light, her youth and innocence so clear, so different from the hardened, brittle cynicism of the women who normally gravitated to the yakuza. Her intelligence and determination were also clear to see, as revealed in her stubborn, fierce displeasure at her presence in this dingy bed-sit.

"Though I don't know why you're so snooty," Sano was saying as he handed her a bowl of packet miso soup. "You can't say you didn't want to come, jou-chan. You practically demanded that we take you with us."

Her eyes narrowed dangerously at the diminutive nickname. "I wanted to see what was so important to you that you'd attack the police station _again_," she retorted. "Though I must say," she said, turning her eyes to Kenshin this time, "the first time around you were much better organized."

She stopped. Her eyes widened. "Your hair," she breathed, "it's…it's _red!"_

Not for the first time, Kenshin cursed whatever gai-jin ancestors had contributed the wild card genes to his DNA. "Yes," he said ruefully, his reaction practiced now after so much repetition, "my grandfather was an American soldier."

His grandfather could have been General Macarthur himself, for all he knew. His mother, so dimly remembered, had been a whore in a grungy Kyoto cathouse, and his father could have been any one of her various customers.

"Oh," she said, not sure how to accept his explanation.

"We wanted to talk to you, Kamiya-san," Kenshin said, quickly changing the subject. "You did not go outside, or off on your own – and so breaking in was the only way we could reach you."

"Saito made me take precautions," she said absently. "But why did you want to talk to _me_?"

"You are not a policewoman," he said, laying everything in front of her, "but you are Saito's assistant. You will be able to take him an offer without incurring charges of corruption."

"From hitokiri Battousai?" she asked. "He hates you, after what you did to his family –"

"No," he said, "_I_ did not kill them." For a moment he was silent, remembering Izo the Butcher's eagerness to supplant him in Katsura's favour, and the terrible tragedy it had led to. "I avenged them, in his name – and to clear my own." He looked up. "I do not kill women or children, Kamiya-san, not anymore."

"Not since Tokugawa Iemon, you mean."

He bowed his head.

"You're a cold-blooded killer," she said. "Everything you do is at your master's order. Why should I believe anything you say?"

"Yes, I am a killer, an assassin," he admitted. "But I had no part in the massacre at Showgirls, nor in any of the other killings in Tokyo since. There has been a change in leadership of the Ishin Shishi –"

"I know," the girl said. "The new leader took over while you were killing a junkie bottom-feeder. You're wanted by both sides now, police and yakuza. Is that why you want to talk to Saito? You want to turn traitor?"

Sano cursed, rising out of his seat, but Kenshin stilled him.

"I want to destroy Shishio. And if I have to work with Saito and the police to do so, then I will."

* * *

"Why do they prefer you to me, old man?" Shishio whispered malevolently in his ear, his lighter making a metallic "pphht" sound that sent chills down Katsura's spine, as the sharp odour of gasoline rose in his nostrils.

"You're ruthless, cold-blooded, and iron-fisted, like me. You don't hesitate to sacrifice useless pawns for your own gain, and you keep an iron grip of terror and intimidation on the streets. Why are you any different to me?" He gripped Katsura's hair and dragged his head back, lighting a burning blue flame just before his eyes.

"I'll tell you why, _Katsura-san_," he sneered, "it's because you hide behind a puling, hypocritical mask you call _honour. _You smile at one man's face and speak fairly while you destroy his life behind his back; you imply, suggest, and hint at everything, and when it comes to deliver, you say you never promised anything! You pride yourself on your word, and yet you never give it – all your _virtues _are nothing more than a pretty front for your ambition!"

A mad red light glowed in Shishio's eyes. "And yet I hide behind nothing, tell the straight truth, and am feared and despised! If I say I will kill any who betray me, I make it very clear that not only the traitor but also their whole family will pay the price. I send my hitokiri out, just as you did, but I refuse to cripple him with useless restraints – I do nothing more than you have done, and they cry and conspire behind my back for your return. Is it so easy to forget Tokugawa Iemon? How can you despise me when you yourself sent Himura to slaughter every man, woman and child at that birthday party?"

Katsura closed his eyes, unwilling to remember that terrible misjudgement. He'd only just broken from the Tokugawa, and he'd been considered weak and insignificant. He'd needed to be perceived as a major threat, and he'd been too hasty, too heavy-handed in his impatience – he'd gone too far beyond what even he thought acceptable.

He'd had his wish, after the ill-fated birthday party: horrified silence had fallen whenever he entered a room, and men had shuddered and turned pale at his displeasure. But Himura had almost walked away from him, then, relenting only after a solid assurance it would never happen again, and so had many of his loyal supporters. After that, he'd known there were lines that could never, should never be crossed. And that was a lesson that Shishio had yet to learn.

"Do you want…" his voice was hoarse and pained, "to know…why?"

Behind him, he could feel the empty, indifferent boy Shishio had created to be Himura's flawed reflection. The Tenken may be emotionless, but he was by no means unintelligent, and he had a detached, almost amused curiosity. Katsura had felt him watching the interrogation and Shishio's growing fury with great interest.

"Tell me why, then, Katsura-san," Shishio smiled unpleasantly. "Share your great wisdom with me, if you please."

"Because," and here he smiled through cracked, bleeding lips, "they know…that when Himura threatened to walk away, I changed my methods…"

"That only means that your entire power base was built on one man's sword."

"No," he laughed, a harsh, hacking cough. "My power base was built…on one man's conscience. And no one has ever…called Himura less than honourable…"

* * *

"Once you cross the line," she said to those flat, determined golden-brown eyes, "there's no going back. They won't let you go, you're too dangerous, and you've killed too many men."

"They can't keep me against my will," he answered. "I will not be used, not unless I choose to allow it."

"You can't be so naïve," she argued. "You think they don't know how to hold you? And besides, even if you do manage to escape the government's clutches, you'll never be trusted on the street again."

"I don't need the street's trust," he said quietly, his eyes very intent on hers. "Only Katsura-san's."

Sagara cursed under his breath and shot the hitokiri a dark glare. Battousai smiled apologetically at the young criminal. "Maa, maa," he murmured, his cold yellow eyes crinkling and warming as he laughed, and put a reassuring hand on Sagara's arm. "And yours, Sano." Tough, cocky Sagara all but melted.

Kaoru noted the revealing exchange, fascinated by the strange dynamic between the street-smart, insolent youth and the world-weary, but far more dangerous assassin.

"And what will you do if Katsura-san is killed before you can restore him?" she asked, "or if he, too, is taken by the government?"

He turned those rueful, suddenly warm eyes on her. "Then it won't matter what happens afterwards, will it?"

She stared at him. "You mean…"

"Don't worry, Kamiya-san. You don't need to be involved; I only need you to approach Saito and set up a meeting."

"I'd say I'm very much involved," she said dryly, refusing to be charmed. "You're asking me to play a very dangerous role."

"This is a dangerous game. But if you're afraid, I'll make you this promise, and swear it on my swords and on my honour: until this is over, no matter what the outcome, I will protect you from _anyone_ who threatens you, whether they're police or yakuza or complete strangers."

She struggled to find words. "And afterwards?"

"Afterwards?" This time, his smile was bitter. "If there is an afterwards," he said, "then we will see."

* * *

"Inspector," Shinomori said, holding out the phone, "it's Masamune. Kamiya's been taken."

Saito snatched it from him, cursing. Wild memories of his murdered wife and partner flashed through his mind before he forced them out, locking them securely away. "Masamune," he growled, "what happened?"

* * *

A/N: next chapter, Kaoru delivers Kenshin's message. Thanks to all my reviewers. Feedback is greatly appreciated.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N – **For some reason, this chapter would not cooperate with me. Finally, in a marathon session on the weekend, I finally managed to force the transition from cryptic, scribbled notes to something approaching what I envisioned…

Disclaimer – I don't own Ruroken. I don't own any of the characters, settings or situations. Don't sue.

**

* * *

**

**Chapter 10**

* * *

Cursing wearily, Saito forced his way up the stairs of the Kyoto Metropolitan police station. There were flashing lights and raised voices everywhere; cops, reporters and civilians all clamouring for information on the second attack in two weeks –

"Lieutenant!"

Gaining entrance to the station foyer, he turned to see Masamune calling him, a white bandage tied rakishly about his forehead. Impatiently, he headed straight towards the young fool and grabbed his arm, hauling him into a private room where they could talk.

"You'd better have a damned good explanation for this," he growled, pacing to the glass window and lighting a cigarette. "From the beginning."

Masamune breathed in and out, obviously trying to compose himself before he began. "We were building up a picture of the assassin," he said, his voice slow and even, "and we'd just decided to pass it on to the other police stations in Kyoto. I went off to get some coffee and to email the picture out, and when I came back, Kamiya-san was gone."

"And?"

"I-I went to search for her, but she wasn't on the third floor – where my office is – and so I went to the lift, and found a man tied up inside."

"A man tied up inside the lift," he repeated slowly, blowing out a long, thin stream of smoke.

"Yes. Tall, black-haired – a terrible hair-cut, like a rooster's comb –"

"Sagara." Saito swore. His fists clenched as he remembered the angry, insolent way the young punk had assured him he didn't get involved in Ishin business, and that he didn't know where Battousai was or what he was doing. "I assume," he said acidly, "since Sagara was there, that Battousai was not far behind."

"I – I think so." Masamune faltered. "I mean…I couldn't see anything. It was too dark, and he struck me from behind. I could hear Kamiya arguing, so I rushed down the stairs as fast as I could…"

"You rushed down the stairs as quickly as you could." Saito eyed the youthful computer artist, his eyes dark and his face lined with exhaustion. "Did you stop to think about what you were rushing into first?"

Masamune opened his mouth, and then shut it with an audible click. Just then, Saito's phone rang, and he threw down his cigarette and flipped it open impatiently.

"What?" he snapped, waiting for whoever was on the other end of the line to identify themselves. And then – "You look tired, Lieutenant," a smooth, impassive voice murmured. "Are you sure you're getting enough sleep?"

* * *

Crouched high on an adjacent rooftop, peering through the station window with high-powered binoculars, Kenshin watched Saito's reaction to his call. His head came up, his whole body stiffened, and his hand flew to the service pistol holstered by his side. The young, nervous looking policeman by his side asked him a worried question, but he silenced him impatiently. His eyes narrowed, scanning the rooftops of the buildings within range of the station –

Kenshin shifted, deliberately allowing his bright hair to catch the sunlight.

Saito's eyes zeroed in on it.

"Hitokiri Battousai," Saito drawled. Through the binoculars, it appeared as though his narrowed, intent gaze was staring straight into Kenshin's. "Have you come to turn yourself in?"

"No," Kenshin replied, watching the younger man's shocked reaction to Saito's words. Did the young, reckless would-be hero know how close he had come to death last night?

Saito's thin, pale lips curved cruelly. "Okubo is dead. Katsura is either dead or imprisoned. Shishio is in firm control of the Ishin Shishi, and has put a ten million yen bounty on your head – you're running out of options, Battousai. And snatching my assistant last night was not the best way to secure my help."

"I needed to attract your attention, Lieutenant," he said, in tacit acknowledgment. "I want to talk to you. Face to face."

There was a long, distrustful silence.

"This is no trap, Saito. My word on it."

"Your word?" But there was no real scorn behind the words; Saito knew what his word meant, on the street. Once Kenshin gave his word, he kept it, even though it had brought him into conflict with Katsura-san's orders on more than one occasion.

"Meet me where at the park in two hours, Lieutenant. Bring Masamune-san with you, and we'll talk. I can assure you Kamiya-san is safe and well, and will continue to be, so long as you cooperate."

He hung up, not waiting to view Saito's reaction, and swore under his breath as he ducked swiftly out of sight. His shoulder was throbbing painfully, strained by the long, frozen vigil and the sudden strain of movement.

He would need every minute of the two hours to prepare himself for the meeting.

* * *

Fifteen years ago, Yamaoto Genji Memorial Park had been a joyous, happy place. Children had played on swings and jungle gyms, ran laughing through the trees and shrubs. It had been a family park, free of the crime and strife of the troublesome inner city.

A good place for birthday parties, once.

Now it was a solemn, sober reminder of Kenshin's lost innocence, of his foolish, youthful zeal and his blind belief in Katsura-san's infallibility.

"Is this…?" Kamiya-san swallowed, her eyes wide as she looked about, taking in the old, abandoned swings and the overgrown greenery, absorbing the quiet, sad atmosphere that sat heavily over the whole park. Kenshin could almost see the ghosts of that long-ago day, hear the children's laughter turn to screams and pleas for mercy.

Sometimes, he woke from a nightmare remembrance of that day, sweating and crying out in denial. Of all his sins, this was the one he most bitterly regretted…

"Yes," he forced himself to answer. "This is where it happened."

Sano, beside him, said nothing. But then Sano had been preserving a dignified, injured silence since Kenshin had overruled him and insisted on this meeting. He cared more about present dangers than ancient tragedies.

"Why ask Saito to meet you here?" Kamiya-san asked. Her blue eyes were calm, intelligent, and welling with some strange mystery – he almost thought it was pity.

"No one comes here anymore," he said, trying to make himself calm and unemotional. Guilt was useless: once done, some things can never be undone, no matter how much he might wish it. "The overgrown trees make good cover."

It was as good a reason as any.

"He's just torturing himself," Sano scowled, finally abandoning his silence. "And giving Saito an unnecessary reminder. I told you we should have gone for someplace neutral."

"There are no neutral locations in Kyoto, Sano," Kenshin replied curtly. "Not for me." As much as he appreciated Sano's company, his normally vast patience had a limit. His shoulder hurt, his head ached, and he truly did not wish to face Saito now – not when he was so weak and vulnerable, not with such trouble hanging over his head.

And most especially, he did not want to face Saito here, in this place of all places.

* * *

Kaoru watched him from the corner of her eye, saw his normally calm composure waver as he looked about him, his shadowed gaze full of old guilt and regret. She'd never thought that hitokiri Battousai, the cold-blooded killer, could be so terribly, fallibly human. Even Sagara seemed to sense his grim mood, his less than tactful comments betraying a heavy-handed attempt at care and concern.

However, the assassin seemed to neither want nor appreciate such attention. His face was pale, his lips set, and he was clearly favouring his injured shoulder – but his voice was clear and concise. "They will be here soon," he said to Kaoru. "You know what to do."

She opened her mouth to protest, but before she could say anything he turned his back and walked away, blending in with the tangled trees and shrubs, his unlikely hair vanishing completely.

Sano swore under his breath and loped off after him, leaving Kaoru all alone.

* * *

Saito saw her the instant he entered the park. She was standing alone and determinedly brave in the centre of the green, and he felt a brief moment of admiration – she had courage, this girl. It only remained to be seen whether she had enough common sense to survive. 

Beside him, Masamune drew in a relieved breath and let out a great, whooping shout. "Kamiya-san!" he laughed, running up to her, picking her up off her feet and whirling her around. "You're alive!"

She grinned, hugging him back as he set her down on her feet and let go. But then she saw Saito, and her professionalism returned. Squaring her shoulders, she met his eyes and drew herself up to attention. "Sir."

"Kamiya," he said blandly. "I assume that Battousai is somewhere close by."

Saito could _feel _his presence, in the ruffled hair on the back of his neck, in the unsettled jangle of his nerves. If this was a trap, then they were all sitting ducks. But he didn't think so, not when the hitokiri had given his word. And not here.

"Yes, sir," the girl nodded. "He's watching from nearby. He wanted me to make the first approach by myself – the first assurance of trust, he said."

"I assume he wishes to cooperate with the police."

"No, sir." She shook her head. "Not with the police. With you."

He smiled grimly. Katsura's right-hand man, Battousai would know damned well which police the old man had corrupted – only to watch helplessly as Shishio forced them to tear Kyoto apart to find him. Katsura's fall had affected far more than just the streets.

"Well, well," he drawled slowly. "I never thought I would see the day hitokiri Battousai came to me for help. I wonder that he dared." He turned his gaze to the trees and shrubs around them. "You'd better have something damned good to offer, Battousai. Fifteen long, bloody years aren't so easily forgotten."

All around them, the world fell silent.

And a slight, red-headed man emerged from the tree-shadow.

* * *

A/N – Apologies about the ending. But this was a wretched, contrary chapter that had to be dragged kicking and struggling into creation.

Please don't forget to feed the author! Feedback is greatly appreciated.


	11. Chapter 11

A/N – Many, many apologies about the extremely slow update. Thanks to all the readers and reviewers who have stuck with me.

Disclaimer – I don't own Ruroken, any of the canon characters, settings or situations. Don't sue.

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Chapter 11

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_

_All around them, the world fell silent. And a slight, red-headed man emerged from the tree-shadow._

Masamune drew in his breath. Saito darted a look at him, noting the sudden pallor, the swift-beating pulse in his throat. The young techno-cop had been dragged onto the mud, blood and ambiguity of the streets, these past few days – and now, finally, he came face to face with the man who could so easily have killed him. In the shadowed darkness, with enemies on all sides, what did an assassin care for the worth of one man's life?

And yet the _hitokiri_ had held back. Just as, mere days ago, he had spared Saito's life – and with far less cause.

Saito had expected many things of the Ishin Shishi's stone-cold enforcer. Battousai's reputation was the stuff of urban myth, tales whispered in dark alleys and shadowed clubs; Saito had not thought to find him small, slender, and almost androgynous.

Nor had he thought to find him capable of mercy.

To give himself time, he reached for the battered packet of cigarettes in his jacket, noting the subtle, instinctive shift of the assassin's stance – slowly, with exaggerated movements, he dragged a long cigarette out and put it in his mouth. Lighting the end, he drew in a long, acrid breath, feeling the calming effects of both nicotine and the familiar routine.

"Hitokiri Battousai," Saito drawled. "I thought you would be taller."

The assassin did not react. No doubt he had heard it all before, long ago. "Saito." His eyes shifted to Masamune, staring transfixed at him, and then to Kamiya, standing still and supportive, her eyes very wide.

As he drew closer, Saito could see the small, subtle signs of age and weariness in the assassin's face. Dark circles beneath the too-white face, the way he held his shoulder – the one Kamiya had put a bullet in – and old, old eyes.

"So," he said, "here I am. Unarmed, if you can believe me –" He gestured with his cigarette. "What do you want? Why go to such lengths to get me here?"

Battousai paused, taking time to consider his answer. Saito had the impression that he was not certain, himself, why he had drawn Saito here. "_Aku Soku Zan,_" he said finally. "You won't bend. You abhor corruption. You're probably the last honourable man on the police force. And because –" He stopped.

Saito finished the sentence for him. "And because you've got nowhere else to go. Your past sins have caught up with you; no one else will even touch you. You'll pay for that birthday party for the rest of your life."

He saw the assassin flinch and pale. It did not give him the satisfaction he imagined it would. And then, disgusted by the small trickle of sympathy, he reminded himself that this man was a murderer, an assassin, and a criminal. He did not deserve sympathy, or empathy, or even understanding.

"I've long accepted that," Battousai replied, his eyes lowered, his shoulders braced against further blows. "I'm not trying to excuse what I've done." He took a deep breath, met Saito's gaze squarely. "I want to take down Shishio Makoto. If I could, I would march into his Tokyo headquarters and kill him. But he has too many men, even for me."

That flat, candid assessment of his own skills – no pride, no false modesty – reminded Saito sharply of the brutal, bloody attack on the Kyoto police station.

And then suddenly it all became clear. Shishio may have imprisoned Katsura, but he had failed to cage Battousai, the old man's sword, the final, absolute arbiter of his authority. The helpless leader of the Ishin Shishi might have other, more subtle long-term options, but none with Battousai's sheer, brutal effectiveness –

_March into his Tokyo headquarters and kill him._

"You expect me to help you kill Shishio and all his men."

It was both terrifying and breathtaking in its simplicity. For years, Saito had dreamed of stepping over that unwritten, unspoken line between cop and vigilante. As he'd seen the corruption grow worse and worse, seen yakuza punks strut and swagger through the streets, flaunting their impunity, his secretly fundamentalist heart had dreamed of cold, hard justice –

_Aku Soku Zan. _The old, extremist code of the Shinsengumi.

"Yes," Battousai said simply.

He drew sharply on his cigarette, considering. He had always planned to use Battousai to flush out and destroy Shishio. Joining him in the attempt would create hellish amounts of paperwork – but the fierce justice of it thrilled his warrior soul. "And what do I get out of it?" he asked. "Why should I join you in this mad plan?"

Beside him, Kamiya stirred, drew in her breath. He cut her off with one flat, warning glance. Saito didn't like the fact that she had brokered to this meeting; her heart was too soft, her sympathies too easily engaged. She had pulled the trigger on Battousai, yes, but she was no killer.

"Because Shishio is worse than Katsura-san ever dreamed of," Battousai said. "He will plunge Tokyo and Kyoto both into never-ending chaos; so long as he is in power, there will be no peace, no stability. If we can stop him now, before he grows too powerful…"

Saito snorted. "And there will be peace and stability once Shishio is gone? Katsura is old, and he's been shown to be weak – the challengers will come crawling out of the woodwork. Any peace and stability will have to be forcibly imposed. Quite frankly, I don't see any difference between you and Shishio's Tenken."

Battousai's eyes flashed feral amber. "_Intent,"_ he snarled. "A sword wielded in defence of the weak and helpless –"

Saito forbore to point out the obvious flaw. It was clear that Battousai truly believed what he said. Perhaps it was the only way the young boy who had once been featured in _Kendo World_ could justify his actions.

"_If_ I agree to help you," he interrupted Battousai's fierce retort, "and _if_ we kill Shishio and all his men, and then destroy his power base, what then?"

Battousai was silent for a long, long time, holding Saito's gaze almost defiantly. "First," he replied, his voice low and fierce, "I will destroy Shishio. If you won't help me, then I'll face him alone, but I _will _face him, even if it means my death. Then, we will see."

Saito's eyes narrowed. "You're a fool, Battousai."

The assassin said nothing. The unbending, almost suicidal strength of his resolve said it all for him.

"Very well," Saito said abruptly. "We will destroy Shishio together, you and I. And afterwards can take care of itself." Slowly, he held out his hand, an unholy pact with the devil.

Battousai shook his hand, and the pact was sealed.

"And you two," Saito said to Kamiya and Masamune, who had witnessed the whole exchange with wide, fascinated eyes, "not a word to _anyone. _Shishio's corruption has infected the whole department. If word of this leaks out, our lives are worth less than nothing."

* * *

"Well?" Sano demanded, once Kenshin made his way back through the park, alone. Kamiya-dono had remained with Saito and Masamune, no longer a hostage as per his and Saito's unholy alliance. "Did he agree to it?"

"He has agreed to join me against Shishio, yes," Kenshin answered, his mind focused on the Tokyo streets and various means of attack. The biggest problem, of course, was Shishio's band of loyal henchmen, and in particular the smiling, lethal Tenken.

"In return for amnesty and pardon?"

When Kenshin said nothing, Sano swore under his breath. "You didn't ask him," he stated flatly.

"He made it clear it would not be granted," Kenshin murmured. "And nor do I deserve it."

Sano clamped one big hand on his uninjured shoulder, whirled him round to face the other big hand, clenched into a shaking, furious fist. "You know something, Kenshin?" the street fighter asked ominously. "Sometimes, you really piss me off."

Kenshin only shook his head, smiling. "If you were going to hit me, Sano, you should have done it years ago, when you first met me."

There was a low, inarticulate growl of frustration. Sano actually looked like he would tear his hair out. Finally, he dropped his hands and turned his eyes up to the sky, as if begging for the patience to deal with Kenshin.

"Right," he said, after he had got himself under control again. "So the psycho cop is on our side. One honest man and his two offsiders, in a city riddled with crooked cops. What now?"

"Now," Kenshin said, "You're going back to Tokyo. And I'm going to grovel."

* * *

The damned hammering on the door would not let up. Hiko had managed to ignore it for a while, losing himself in the smooth, slippery glide of his pottery wheel, but when there was no pause after a full fifteen minutes, he threw down the ruined beginnings of his work and stormed towards the front door.

Most Kyoto residents knew better than to hammer on old, drunken Hiko's door at ungodly hours of the morning. He had a nasty feeling that he knew what this was about. In the past few weeks there had been what seemed like an unending stream of people pounding on his door, all trying to drag him back into his baka deshi's chaotic troubles.

There was a reason he had retired from the world and locked himself away.

Sure enough, when he threw open the door, Kenshin stood on the other side, wearing that damned look of self-sacrificial resolve. Quickly, he slammed the door in the naïve fool's face. But the door rebounded off Kenshin's quick foot, hastily shot out –

"Shishou, wait!" the fool called, "I must speak to you. Please." Cautiously, he pushed the door open and slipped inside, standing awkwardly in the entranceway and looking about him as if he saw a ghost.

In a way, he did. The ghost of his past, of Hiten Mitsurugi, of every shred of honour, decency and intelligence that Hiko had tried to pound into his stubborn head. The very memory of the last time Kenshin stood where he was now, declaiming, swearing that joining the yakuza was the best way to protect innocents, was enough to thoroughly sour Hiko's temper.

"I have nothing to speak to you about," Hiko stated, turning his back and heading back to his pottery. "I've said it all before."

Then came a rustling and two thuds, as if a small man in a long coat had gone to his knees, placing his swords before him. "Shishou," came Kenshin's low, formal voice, "I know I left my training prematurely. But I humbly beg you to teach me the ultimate succession technique."

Hiko stopped, turned around, unable to believe what he had just heard. "Fifteen years ago, baka deshi, you walked out, swearing that you would make the streets a better place," he snarled incredulously. "Do you think that knowing the ultimate secrets of Hiten Mitsurugi will mean anything at all if you use it for murder and assassination? Have you learnt nothing I've ever taught you, fool?"

Kenshin bowed his head, bent down low in formal obeisance. "No matter the price, Shishio must be stopped," he murmured, his voice just as passionate and foolishly determined as ever. "Shishou, you've seen what he's doing to the streets. It's not safe anywhere, for anyone. Ordinary people walk in fear of their very lives, and Shishio's men rampage unrestrained across the city –"

"Huh," he grunted sceptically. "He sounds like just another petty tyrant. In five, ten years there will be another, just like him."

His baka deshi came up out the obeisance. His wounded shoulder was still bound, and the shadows of pain and fatigue were all too clear in his pale face, but his eyes were alight with conviction. "But that doesn't mean we should sit back and do nothing, allow him to continue his oppression unopposed. Shishou, what must I do to convince you? I will do _anything_."

There was a long, long pause, while Hiko weighed his former student's words, tried to reconcile the headstrong, impetuous teenage boy with this tired, pale stranger, and with the shadow killer of urban legend.

"It cannot be because I ask it of you, Kenshin," he began slowly. "It must come from within _you_. That is what I have been trying to teach you all those years. The strength, the wisdom, the choices – they must all come from within. You _cannot_ let others guide your sword, or allow others to dictate to you how and when justice is to be served. _You_ must tell _me_ why you want the final attack, and why I should give it to you."

Kenshin stared at him, at his master, his mentor, the closest thing he'd ever had to a father. There were many reasons why he had come here, willing to swallow his pride and humble himself before his proud, unforgiving shishou. He had come in the hope of restoring justice and order to the streets, so that innocent people were free to walk without fear, to go about their business without Shishio's reign of terror. He had become because he felt responsible, and because he was determined to overthrow Shishio, and save Katsura-san. But at the fundamental root of it, there was only one real reason –

"To protect my friends," he said finally.

Hiko's black eyes were completely flat, his face unreadable and impassive. "Huh," he replied. "That will do, I suppose."

* * *


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N** – In this chapter, Kenshin goes back to his training while others prepare in their own way. Thank you to all who have been waiting for over two years for the next chapter. Again, I apologise for the length of time between updates.  
**Disclaimer** – I don't own Ruroken, any of the canon characters, situations or settings.

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**Chapter 12**

* * *

Once, long ago, Hiko Seijuuro had been a master of his art. He'd been younger then, and the world a brighter, better place; before the bottle, before his hope for the future ran off half-cocked to become a hired assassin. Since then, he'd existed in a semi-alcoholic haze, not caring much for anything beyond his sake and his pottery. However, the morning after his deshi finally returned, properly penitent, he rose from his bed feeling thirty years younger.

Kenshin slept lightly in the spare room, clutching his swords close, far from the boneless teenage sprawl Hiko remembered. He was pale, clearly exhausted, and perhaps that was why he did not wake, not even when Hiko loomed over his tightly curled body with a basin of icy water. He woke quickly enough when Hiko doused him, springing to his feet with an outraged yowl of protest. His katana whipped out with truly commendable speed, but Hiko blocked the strike easily, sending him sprawling on his behind in a pool of soaked fabric and spreading water.

Kenshin scowled up at Hiko through his dripping hair, and there it was – the old, disgruntled attitude that was all his young, troubled, hot-headed apprentice.

"Shishou! What –!"

"Wake up, baka deshi. It's time to resume your training."

* * *

"It's too good to be true," Saito muttered, pacing his tiny office. "Do you know how long I've been trying to get my hands on that list? Should I honestly believe that Battousai – _Battousai, _of all people! – would just hand it to me so easily?" He whipped about, fixed Masamune with a piercing glare. "Well? Is it genuine?"

The young computer specialist looked up from his screen with something close to a scowl. "If you would just let me do my job, sir –"

"Get on with it!"

Masamune swallowed, ducked his head and went back to his computer. As the sound of swift tapping keystrokes filled the room, Saito forced himself to sit down, forced his restless hands to stillness. Before vanishing into the tree-shadows of the park yesterday, Battousai had given Saito one last gesture of good faith: an encrypted list of all the crooked cops on Katsura's payroll.

* * *

"Again." Hiko's voice was insufferably bored.

Kenshin drew in a harsh breath, held on to his bruised ribs, and forced himself to his feet. His shishou was standing tall, sword held easily, implacably calm. Breathing slowly, he wiped the stinging sweat from his eyes, gripped his sword and resumed the most basic position – feet balanced, sword up, the most fundamental, basic stance of all kenjutsu schools. Calm and centred, he exhaled harshly and attacked –

Hiko countered with blinding swiftness. Kenshin blocked, moved again, a rhythm as instinctive as drawing breath, ingrained in his very bones. This was the dance of Hiten Mitsurugi, and Hiko the master against whom he had always measured himself –

Hiko moved unexpectedly, put him minutely off balance; in defence, Kenshin took to the sky where his size and agility gave him the advantage. But Hiko blocked him easily, sent him flying away. He slapped the floor when he landed, absorbing momentum, tumbled head over heels and sprang upright once more.

"Baka deshi," Hiko scowled, shaking his head. "Have you forgotten everything I've ever tried to teach you? You take too many shortcuts; rely too much on flashy tricks."

"Flashy –!"

"Flashy tricks, I say. This isn't a martial arts movie, boy. Now –" Hiko sheathed his sword and moved towards an old deck chair from where he could observe in comfort "– start from the beginning. Show me 1st position."

"But Shishou!"

"First position, baka deshi."

* * *

It had been a while since Sano had last seen Katsu. His old comrade hated the Ishin Shishi and disapproved of his friendship with Kenshin; Battousai had not been among the assassins sent to wipe out Sagara-taichou and the Sekihoutai, but he had done nothing to stop it, either. For the sake of their friendship Sano had long since forgiven Kenshin, but Katsu could neither forgive nor forget. All too often their conversations dissolved into arguments and recriminations that left nothing resolved.

Still, Katsu had access to all sorts of valuable information. And so Sano got off the train in Tokyo and made his way to the reinforced cellar where Katsu housed his underground press. He was not – exactly – disguised, but he was not wearing his distinctive jacket and bandana. He was too well known in Tokyo as one of Battousai's protégés, and he had no wish to attract Shishio's attention.

"Sano!" Katsu said, hurrying forward to greet him. "I was so worried. You disappeared chasing after Battousai, and then it all went to hell –" Throwing his usual cool reserve to the wind, Katsu grabbed Sano in a hug.

"Katsu," Sano ground out, awkwardly returning the hug. "Sorry. I didn't get time to tell you where I was going."

Katsu held on for a moment longer, then let go. "Probably for the best," he sighed. "That mongrel Chou came sniffing around here a couple of days ago. Thought he could throw his weight around now that Shishio's taken over."

"Bet you showed him, though."

"Yeah." Katsu grinned evilly. "We Sekihoutai protect our own, Sano. Even your damned assassin friend."

"Thanks, Katsu." Sano swallowed. "Really."

"It's nothing." Katsu waved it off. "Now why don't you tell me why you've come back?"

* * *

Hiko sipped at his tea with a great sense of satisfaction. His baka deshi had had it far too easy in the last fifteen years, going for the quick kill, the easy victories. He'd forgotten or discarded the exquisite subtleties and technicalities of the art, and Hiko was determined to pound them back into his rock-stubborn skull.

And so in the centre of the dojo, rumpled and sweating, Kenshin ran through basic kata with pointed vehemence, every step crisp and precise. This particular kata was one of the very first Hiko had ever taught him, the steps drilled into him so often in the early years that Kenshin could recreate it from muscle memory more than twenty years later. Its simplicity was almost hypnotic, drawing him deeper and deeper in – even as Hiko watched, the vehemence faded, giving way to smooth, sure movement and balanced grace. His muscles bunched and relaxed as he stepped and blocked and thrust, the fundamental steps performed with perfect discipline and control.

Somewhere, somehow the brittle, flawed boy he'd taken in off the streets had become a man. He'd lost some of the freakish swiftness and agility of his adolescence, but gained strength and muscle mass in return. And not just physical strength, either – there was hard-won fragile wisdom in those golden-brown eyes, and a growing awareness of the true value of life.

Though he would never, ever admit it, Kenshin was his greatest masterpiece, all the more beautiful because of his flaws.

* * *

Saito had long suspected a number of cops on Battousai's list. He had itched to do something about the widespread corruption for years – well, now he had his chance and he was taking it.

"Passing over the madness of trusting Battousai," Shinomori began, his eyes narrowed against the haze, "and not even mentioning your mad plan to join forces with him –"

"Thank you," Saito drawled.

"Are you sure this is wise, Saito?" Shinomori finally asked. They were tucked into the corner of an anonymous karaoke bar, surrounded by half-drunk salary men mangling Western pop songs.

"It is necessary, Shinomori. Frankly I don't care who leads the Ishin Shishi, but this network of corruption must be excised. I don't care how high the rot goes."

The other detective looked grim. "And how will you – excise – the rot? The courts will be no help."

Saito pulled out a cigarette and lit it with steady hands. "_Aku Soku Zan._" He took a long, deep drag, breathed out a cloud of acrid smoke. "I will cut out this cancer like a surgeon; with my blade, with my gun, with any and all weapons at my disposal."

"Then you will be no better than Battousai."

Saito smiled grimly. "So be it."

Shinomori surveyed him through unsettling blue eyes. "You are set on this," he said, more to himself than to Saito. And then, as though coming to a decision, he nodded. "We will help you."

Saito paused. "We?"

"Surely you don't think you can do it alone. Wasn't that why you asked me to come to Kyoto?"

"Are you finally going to tell me your hidden connections?"

They regarded each other in silence.

* * *

It was close on 11pm before Kaoru finally emerged from the police station. Walking back to her hotel, she wondered at what she'd done. She'd promised to help a notorious yakuza assassin against the entire Kyoto and Tokyo police, had gambled her entire career – and most likely her life – on the chance that Battousai and Saito were strong enough to defeat Shishio and all his evil minions. She'd been convinced by a gentle, rueful smile, by Sagara's over-protective friendship. And somehow, between revulsion at what he was and reluctant admiration of what he was preparing to do, she'd put her faith in hitokiri Battousai.

It was never quite dark in downtown Kyoto, but there were shadows aplenty, and something in the night set her instincts humming; cursing, she wished that she had her bokken. She knew all too well how quickly an attacker could emerge from the darkness. Still, the route was well-lit if not particularly safe; she hitched her bag up on her shoulder and hurried on. She was coming up on a dark alley mouth with a flickering, stuttering street-light – out of the corner of her eye, she saw the shadow flicker slightly, and started.

And then the shadow stirred, moved, and held up its hands, palms first, and came out further into the light. "Don't worry, Kamiya-san," Battousai said. "It's only me."

She breathed out, a long, sighing breath, fully cognisant of the irony of her relief.

"I thought it might be one of Shishio's men," she said.

He shook his head. "No, Shishio has no reason to go after you. There were some street toughs hanging about tonight, watching you – but I persuaded them to look elsewhere."

"How did you – no, don't answer that. How did you know I would be coming this way?"

He stared at her. "I promised to protect you, Kamiya-san. I have been watching over you every night as you walk back to your hotel."

She opened her mouth to tell him that she was quite capable of taking care of herself, thank you very much, but somehow could not bring herself to rebuke him. The thought of this dangerous assassin shadowing her, watching out for her was… She was not sure what she thought of it.

Instead she said, "I thought that you had gone into intensive training with your shishou? Surely you can't be getting much sleep?"

He shrugged. "I'm used to late nights. Besides, I wouldn't be able to sleep unless I knew you were safe."

Almost without her noticing they had started walking again, Kenshin making sure that she was between him and the road and any passers-by; she noticed that he moved in absolute silence, seemed to instinctively slip in and out of shadows, and used his hair to disguise his features. Other than that, and the slight suggestion of his swords under his leather coat, they could be any couple in Kyoto out for a late-night stroll.

There was a small 24-hour café just near the hotel. As they neared it, Kaoru was struck by a sudden impulse.

"Er, Himura-san," she began awkwardly, not quite sure how to address him. "Would you like to stop in here for some coffee? My hotel is just around the corner. If, that is, your shishou won't mind you staying out too late."

He did not quite laugh, though she thought she saw his eyes crinkle in amusement. "Shishou will not be happy, I'm afraid. But that's nothing new."

So they stepped into the café, Battousai somehow managing to avoid the strongest light so his hair appeared to be black. Kaoru ordered a latte and Battousai, who was (for all his lack of sleep) on a strict regimen, ordered tea. And they spoke quietly about everything but Shishio and the Ishin Shishi: about kendo and their respective teachers, about their very different childhoods, about Kaoru's days as a tomboy at school and Battousai's eclectic and varied education by oil light, because Hiko could not afford electricity.

"He filled my mind with honour and bushido and poetry," Battousai said ruefully. "Between shishou and the geisha –" his eyes gleamed with mingled sadness and amusement, "– I was in no way prepared for the real world, even though I spent my earliest years on the streets."

She thought of a young boy, small for his age, gripping his practice bokken with heartfelt determination. She thought of a crusty bachelor swordsman who must have had no idea what to do with his young charge.

"It must have hurt you to leave," she said. "Was it – hard – to go back to him?"

His mouth tightened. "I was a hot-tempered boy who stormed out in a passionate rage, burning my bridges behind me," he said quietly. "Though the years passed, and the rage and the passion cooled, I thought I could never go back." His expression turned aggrieved. "Of course, shishou has taken it out of my hide."

Despite herself, she laughed. "He's being hard on you?"

"He was always a slave driver; now he's impossible. But… I can feel the improvement. I haven't been this technically perfect for more than a decade. And if I can endure his torture long enough, perhaps shishou will finally teach me the ougi."

She smiled, reached out as though to put her hand on his. In the course of their conversation she'd begun to see him as a man, not a monster; still, he froze, and she pulled back at the last moment.

"If you had the courage to go back to him, Himura-san, I believe that you can stick it out."

He ducked his head, actually smiled shyly. "Thank you."

Eventually their conversation trailed into companionable silence. Kaoru had the odd thought that she had never felt so comfortable with a man before; despite the blood on his hands, she felt perfectly safe with him.

When it was time to leave, Battousai – Himura-san – held the door open for her and shepherded her outside. He walked with her through dimly lit streets back to her hotel, and waited until she was safely inside before raising a hand in farewell and fading back into the shadows.

She watched him go, and some part of her wished that he could stay.

* * *

"Again!"

Hiko scowled ferociously as Kenshin picked himself up off the dojo floor, but inside he was almost dancing with glee. His baka deshi had returned very late last night, sneaking in through the back window while trying to mask his ki. For a notorious shadow assassin, it was a very poor attempt at subterfuge, and it was damned naïve to think that Hiko was unaware of Kenshin's late night excursions. The dark circles under his eyes alone would have given him away.

However, his watching over the policewoman was a very good sign that Kenshin had finally found something he wished to protect. Not Katsura's general, idealised dream of his teenage years, that had led him into such folly and grief, but a man's true, heartfelt wish to protect a woman he –

Well, Hiko had no wish to know the details.

(But thank all the gods. He had begun to wonder about his baka deshi).

And this motivation – for all the dark circles under his eyes – was pushing Kenshin much harder than any general desire to succeed. If he continued to improve at this pace, then Hiko would soon have little left to teach him except the last two final attacks.

For the first time since Kenshin had stormed out more than fifteen years ago, Hiko was truly satisfied with his baka deshi. Finally, he was reconciled with the idea of passing on the last secrets of Hiten Misturugi Ryu.

* * *

"I've made some discreet enquiries," Katsu said, pouring sake for himself and Sano. "Shishio's network is more extensive than anyone thought. He must have been preparing for something like this for years."

"Bastard," Sano muttered under his breath, downing his sake in one gulp. Kenshin – a closet sake snob – would have been horrified, but Sano was not so particular. "Compared to Shishio, old man Katsura was a saint."

Katsu scowled. "If I had my way, I'd see them both dead. But," he interrupted Sano's startled interjection, "here. Give this to your assassin friend." He slid a tiny memory stick over to Sano. "It's everything I've managed to dig up on the Juppongatana, and the layout of Shishio's lair."

"Thanks, Katsu. I owe you one." Fuelled by a wave of drunken affection, Sano thumped him heartily on the back. "You're my oldest friend. Did you know that?"

"Keh." Katsu looked away, blushing a little. "Just make sure that you bring Shishio down."

"Heh. No problems. Between Kenshin, the psycho cop, and me, he doesn't stand a chance."

Katsu let that one pass.

"Oh, and one more thing, Sano. I've heard rumours that the Oniwabanshuu are sniffing around Shishio as well. Be careful, will you? Those guys are bad news."

Sano sputtered. "Oniwabanshuu? What, you mean ninja?"

"Yes, Sano. Ninja." Katsu sighed. "Is it so hard to believe?"

* * *

A/N - Next chapter, the ougi! Thank you to all my reviewers. Feedback is greatly appreciated.


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